Once and
again she glanced up without moving her head at the three-quarter
profile on her left, at the somewhat Zulu-like outline opposite to
her; then down again at the polished little round table and the six
hands laid upon it. And meanwhile her brain revolved images rather
than thoughts, memories rather than reflections--vignettes, so to
speak,--old Mr. Cathcart in his spats and frock-coat, the look on the
medium's face, there and gone again in an instant as he had heard the
stranger's name; the carved oak stalls of the chancel towards which
she had faced this morning, the look of the park, the bloom upon the
still leafless trees, the radiance of the blue spring sky....
It must have been, she thought, after a little over an hour that the
first expected movement made itself felt--a long trembling shudder
through the wood beneath her hands, followed by a strange sensation of
lightness, as if the whole table rose a little from the floor. Then,
almost before the movement subsided, a torrent of little taps poured
itself out, as delicate and as swift and, it seemed, as perfectly
calculated, as the rapping of some minute electric hammer. This was
new to her, yet not so unlike other experiences as to seem strange or
perturbing in any way.
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