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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.“Yes—tomorrow.NowImustgotobed.Goodnight.”Andquicklycatchingupacandlestick,heleftusslightlybewildered.Fromourendofthegreatbrownhallweheardhissteponthestair;whereuponMrs.Griffinspoke.“Well,ifIdon’tknowwhoshewasinlovewith,Iknowwhohewas.”
“Shewastenyearsolder,”saidherhusband.
“Raisondeplus—atthatage!Butit’srathernice,hislongreticence.”
“Fortyyears!”Griffinputin.
“Withthisoutbreakatlast.”
“Theoutbreak,”Ireturned,“willmakeatremendousoccasionofThursdaynight;”andeveryonesoagreedwithmethat,inthelightofit,welostallattentionforeverythingelse.Thelaststory,howeverincompleteandlikethemereopeningofaserial,hadbeentold;wehandshookand“candlestuck,”assomebodysaid,andwenttobed.
Iknewthenextdaythatalettercontainingthekeyhad,bythefirstpost,goneofftohisLondonapartments;butinspiteof—orperhapsjustonaccountof—theeventualdiffusionofthisknowledgewequitelethimalonetillafterdinner,tillsuchanhouroftheevening,infact,asmightbestaccordwiththekindofemotiononwhichourhopeswerefixed.
