
Elif Batuman Reads Sylvia Townsend Warner
The New Yorker: Fiction
A Killer Feels Ten Times More Afraid
A murderer feels ten times more afraid, a million times more afraid. He's afraid of everything, every one he meets, every knock at the door, every noise. The boy glanced furtively at the black mouth of the chimney,. then out of the window at the tossing ilexes. There was still time for him to get away. At the same moment, the boy switched on the light. It lit up the small, dejected figure of a man with a pointed beard. His look of oppression deepened. Clive avoided looking at the boy and said: 'I don't know why anyone should complain of a house like this'
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