Chapter 47

           Itwasnearlytwohoursbeforeday-break;thattimewhichintheautumnoftheyear,maybetrulycalledthedeadofnight;whenthestreetsaresilentanddeserted;whenevensoundsappeartoslumber,andprofligacyandriothavestaggeredhometodream;itwasatthisstillandsilenthour,thatFaginsatwatchinginhisoldlair,withfacesodistortedandpale,andeyessoredandblood-shot,thathelookedlesslikeaman,thanlikesomehideousphantom,moistfromthegrave,andworriedbyanevilspirit.

           Hesatcrouchingoveracoldhearth,wrappedinanoldtorncoverlet,withhisfaceturnedtowardsawastingcandlethatstooduponatablebyhisside.Hisrighthandwasraisedtohislips,andas,absorbedinthought,hehithislongblacknails,hedisclosedamonghistoothlessgumsafewsuchfangsasshouldhavebeenadog’sorrat’s.

           Stretcheduponamattressonthefloor,layNoahClaypole,fastasleep.Towardshimtheoldmansometimesdirectedhiseyesforaninstant,andthenbroughtthembackagaintothecandle;whichwithalong-burntwickdroopingalmostdouble,andhotgreasefallingdowninclotsuponthetable,plainlyshowedthathisthoughtswerebusyelsewhere.

           Indeedtheywere.

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