She had felt very uncomfortable around him, grotesque. He was damned if he knew what to do. You are my prisoner, murderer. It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage.
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