There they were, the mob outside, yelling and jeering and shaking their fists.She was aware of a terrible constriction, as of difficulty in breathing, although it was not really a physical sensation at all but a suffocating horror of seeing the same scene play itself out again.The man threw the casement wide, lifted something from his head — God, was he going to throw his own head to the mob? No, only his hat. He had on a cylindrical black hat with a strip of ribbon around the base. He threw it down and bowed to the crowd, now a group of men in frock coats who applauded.But what’s so horrible about this, she thought, confused. The scene was comic rather than awful, the figure at the window a caricature rather than a demon: stick limbs and a whiskery head sticking out of his absurd dark gown. But a caricature should not move, bend, wave to the crowd, act like a living being. It’s like the puppet in DEAD OF NIGHT, she thought, the ventriloquist’s dummy that speaks on its own — unspeakable —And he’s going to turn now and show me his face —She woke, gasping but triumphant with discovery.
What do You think about Dorothea Dreams (Heirloom Books)?
