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Freeman, R. Austin (Richard Austin), 1862-1943

"The Vanishing Man"

You mustn't break
down now, you know, when the storm has passed and the sun is beginning
to shine." He held the door open, and as we passed out his face softened
into a smile of infinite kindness. "You won't mind my locking you out,"
said he; "this is a photographic dark-room at present."
The key grated in the lock and we turned away into the dim gallery. It
was not quite dark, for a beam of moonlight filtered in here and there
through the blinds that covered the sky-lights. We walked on slowly, her
arm linked in mine, and for a while neither of us spoke. The great rooms
were very silent and peaceful and solemn. The hush, the stillness, the
mystery of the half-seen forms in the cases around, were all in harmony
with the deeply-felt sense of a great deliverance that filled our
hearts.
We had passed through into the next room before either of us broke the
silence. Insensibly our hands had crept together, and as they met and
clasped with mutual pressure, Ruth exclaimed: "How dreadful and tragic
it is! Poor, poor Uncle John! It seems as if he had come back from the
world of shadows to tell us of this awful thing.


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