Sublime

This bleak mausoleum called St Wilfrid’s has the power to make you unhappy, and this is the only message it is prepared to give.

“When I lived alone. But I was obliged to stop after I moved to Eversby Priory, when Kathleen told me it was scaring the servants.” “It sounded nonhuman,” Kathleen said. “We all thought someone was performing an exorcism.”

The images that haunted me were solemn; and I entertained an imperfect curiosity, but no fear, as to the nature of this object.

There have been things seen and done here which leave strange influences behind! They don’t touch you, doubtless, who come of another race. But they touch me, often, in the whisper of the leaves and the odour of the mouldy soil and the blank eyes of the old statues. I can’t bear to look the statues in the face. I seem to see other strange eyes in

While she wrote the final paragraphs in March, she had been troubled by nightmares “of the dead being alive.” Her baby girl. Fanny. Her mother. And the most terrifying: Harriet, her hair streaming, floating up from the Serpentine, staring at the woman who had stolen her husband.

This position is sufficient to account for the silence prevalent in the streets shut in between the dome of the Pantheon and the dome of the Val-de-Grace, two conspicuous public buildings which give a yellowish tone to the landscape and darken the whole district that lies beneath the shadow of their leaden-hued cupolas.