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The Turn of the Screw

           “Whowasitshewasinlovewith?”

           “Thestorywilltell,”Itookuponmyselftoreply.

           “Oh,Ican’twaitforthestory!”

           “Thestorywon’ttell,”saidDouglas;“notinanyliteral,vulgarway.”

           “More’sthepity,then.That’stheonlywayIeverunderstand.”

           “Won’tyoutell,Douglas?”somebodyelseinquired.

           Hesprangtohisfeetagain.“Yestomorrow.NowImustgotobed.Goodnight.”Andquicklycatchingupacandlestick,heleftusslightlybewildered.Fromourendofthegreatbrownhallweheardhissteponthestair;whereuponMrs.Griffinspoke.“Well,ifIdon’tknowwhoshewasinlovewith,Iknowwhohewas.”

           “Shewastenyearsolder,”saidherhusband.

           “Raisondeplusatthatage!Butit’srathernice,hislongreticence.”

           “Fortyyears!”Griffinputin.

           “Withthisoutbreakatlast.”

           “Theoutbreak,”Ireturned,“willmakeatremendousoccasionofThursdaynight;”andeveryonesoagreedwithmethat,inthelightofit,welostallattentionforeverythingelse.Thelaststory,howeverincompleteandlikethemereopeningofaserial,hadbeentold;wehandshookand“candlestuck,”assomebodysaid,andwenttobed.

           Iknewthenextdaythatalettercontainingthekeyhad,bythefirstpost,goneofftohisLondonapartments;butinspiteoforperhapsjustonaccountoftheeventualdiffusionofthisknowledgewequitelethimalonetillafterdinner,tillsuchanhouroftheevening,infact,asmightbestaccordwiththekindofemotiononwhichourhopeswerefixed.

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