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Unformatted text preview: ic among its oaks and magnolia trees, a narrow and high-flung castle complete with battlements and walls that appear indestructible. A deep secretive house, full of graceful designs yet somehow ominous. I saw the window of the master bedroom to the north. I saw a sight which many have seen since, and which you have seen, the flicker of candles against the shutters. I came into the house, forcing the door, with Lasher's help or my own strength I do not know, only that it yielded to me, and the lock broke and was thereafter useless. I took off my rain-drenched coat and went up the stairs. The door to the master bedroom lay open. Of course I expected to see the dead Irish architect lying there putrefying on summer schedule. But I soon realized he had been taken away on account of the contagion. The superstitious Irish maids came to tell me this, that Darcy, poor spul, was already buried, and with the bells of St. Alphonsus tolling night and day, there had been no time for a Requiem. Withi...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10