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VII. The Night of the Sixth of November

           Susan’ssightofherpassingfigureearlierintheevening,notfiveminutesafterthesickboy’sexclamation,“Mother,Idofeelsobad!”persuadedthematronthatanevilinfluencewascertainlyexercisedbyEustacia’spropinquity.

           OnthisaccountSusandidnotgotobedassoonastheevening’sworkwasover,asshewouldhavedoneatordinarytimes.TocounteractthemalignspellwhichsheimaginedpoorEustaciatobeworking,theboy’smotherbusiedherselfwithaghastlyinventionofsuperstition,calculatedtobringpowerlessness,atrophy,andannihilationonanyhumanbeingagainstwhomitwasdirected.ItwasapracticewellknownonEgdonatthatdate,andonethatisnotquiteextinctatthepresentday.

           Shepassedwithhercandleintoaninnerroom,where,amongotherutensils,weretwolargebrownpans,containingtogetherperhapsahundredweightofliquidhoney,theproduceofthebeesduringtheforegoingsummer.Onashelfoverthepanswasasmoothandsolidyellowmassofahemisphericalform,consistingofbeeswaxfromthesametakeofhoney.Susantookdownthelump,andcuttingoffseveralthinslices,heapedtheminanironladle,withwhichshereturnedtotheliving-room,andplacedthevesselinthehotashesofthefireplace.Assoonasthewaxhadsoftenedtotheplasticityofdoughshekneadedthepiecestogether.Andnowherfacebecamemoreintent.Shebeganmouldingthewax;anditwasevidentfromhermannerofmanipulationthatshewasendeavouringtogiveitsomepreconceivedform.Theformwashuman.

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