There was a sound. A soft, indefinite slurring sound. Of faint shuffling, ghostly feet? Sara kept swallowing her heart, which had in some peculiar way jumped right up to the back of her throat. She took a step forward, and her hand, instead of empty air, met something soft, and warm, and hairy. Her last poor remnants of courage left her. She let out a yell, and, heedless where she might go, dashed forward as quickly as her shaking legs would carry her, slipping and tripping over the uneven ground, panic-stricken...
From BRETON HOLIDAY, Chapter 9, "...Because He Knows a Frightful Fiend Doth Close Behind Him Tread".
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