It was well received and reviewed, but the person who was really pleased with it was myself, for I knew better than any critic how difficult it had been.
“Watch and pray,” he said. “Watch and pray. The day of judgment is at hand.” He collapsed through the doorway on to the platform. From a recumbent position he looked up at Mr. Blore and said with immense dignity: “I’m talking to you, young man. The day of judgment is very close at hand.” Subsiding on to his seat Mr. Blore thought to himself: He’s nearer the day of judgment than I am! But there, as it happens, he was wrong
There was something magical about an island—the mere word suggested fantasy. You lost touch with the world—an island was a world of its own. A world, perhaps, from which you might never return.
If this had been an old house, with creaking wood, and dark shadows, and heavily panelled walls, there might have been an eerie feeling. But this house was the essence of modernity. There were no dark corners—no possible sliding panels—it was flooded with electric light—everything was new and bright and shining. There was nothing hidden in this house, nothing concealed. It had no atmosphere about it. Somehow, that was the most frightening thing of all….