His face, pale, almost earthy in hue, might
have been a mask, save for the slight convulsive spasms that
crossed it from time to time, and corresponded with the faint,
shivering starts that passed at intervals over his whole body.
To complete his repellent appearance, a lock of hair had
fallen loose and lay black and damp across his forehead.
Loder stood for a space shocked and spellbound by the sight.
Even in the ghastly disarray, the likeness--the extraordinary,
sinister likeness that had become the pivot upon which he
himself revolved--struck him like a blow. The man who lay
there was himself-bound to him by some subtle, inexplicable
tie of similarity. As the idea touched him he turned aside
and stepped quickly to the dressing-table; there, with
unnecessary energy, he flung back the curtains and threw the
window wide; then again he turned towards the bed. He had one
dominant impulse--to waken Chilcote, to be free of the
repulsive, inert presence that chilled him with so personal a
horror. Leaning over the bed, he caught the shoulder nearest
to him and shook it.
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