Lamb

gueule-de-loupviolette-  Robert Demachy

The coachman is hunched in a gabardine. “Go knock,” he tells me.

I look past him to the house. It looms, square and stone-faced, above me. Its small windows show no light, except a small leaded pane high above the great, dark front door.

Shrinking from the stinging rain, I climb the stone steps and reach for the wrought iron knocker but, before my fingers touch the dripping iron, the door moves, opening a crack and an anxious face, lit by a flickering candle, peers out.

“Miss Lamb?” The voice is filled with hope.

“Yes.”

“Thank God you’re here.”

 

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