He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. I fight. "I think you're all bewitched," she cried. This is simply a chapter of coincidences. "Why did I want it under my pillow?" he asked.
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