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Edgar Huntley - or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker by Charles Brockden Brown
page 84 of 322 (26%)
servant or robber, I am not sure that I should have noticed him. My
attention was too perfectly engrossed to allow me to spare any to a
casual object. I cannot affirm that no one observed me. This, however,
was probable from the distribution of the dwelling. It consisted of a
central edifice and two wings, one of which was appropriated to
domestics and the other, at the extremity of which my apartment was
placed, comprehended a library, and rooms for formal and social and
literary conferences. These, therefore, were deserted at night, and my
way lay along these. Hence it was not likely that my steps would be
observed.

I proceeded to the hall. The principal parlour was beneath her chamber.
In the confusion of my thoughts, I mistook one for the other. I
rectified, as soon as I detected, my mistake. I ascended, with a beating
heart, the staircase. The door of the antechamber was unfastened. I
entered, totally regardless of disturbing the girl who slept within. The
bed which she occupied was concealed by curtains. Whether she were
there, I did not stop to examine. I cannot recollect that any tokens
were given of wakefulness or alarm. It was not till I reached the door
of her own apartment that my heart began to falter.

It was now that the momentousness of the question I was about to decide
rushed with its genuine force upon my apprehension. Appalled and aghast,
I had scarcely power to move the bolt. If the imagination of her death
was not to be supported, how should I bear the spectacle of wounds and
blood? Yet this was reserved for me. A few paces would set me in the
midst of a scene of which I was the abhorred contriver. Was it right to
proceed? There were still the remnants of doubt. My forebodings might
possibly be groundless. All within might be safety and serenity. A
respite might be gained from the execution of an irrevocable sentence.
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