“I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. Joan told me it was hung somewhere in the house, only I couldn’t remember where after all this time. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. It would be very hard perhaps to make you understand just how I feel about it. ’ It seems that I was mistaken. We have that gift. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. It makes no difference.
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