“Oh, I have done wrong. I see it now. Poor little Clare! It is my fault that you will not return. I have made your earth life wretched, poor child. Forgive me, little Clare. I promise never to trouble Margie again, for your sake!”

“Poor Clifford!” How heavenly sweet were the tones of Clare’s faraway voice! “You were lonely. Now I understand. And I cannot blame you, poor lonely Clifford. After all, you must not reproach yourself—I shall be happier here—I can be with my dear ones as I choose—and I shall suffer no more with a weak heart and useless feet.”

The figure of the entranced girl sank lower in the chair. The psychic cried out suddenly as she felt that cold hand pulling on her own warm one.

“Turn on the lights!” she commanded, her voice agitated and alarmed. “Oh, why did I consent to this! I know what Douglas will say to me, now.”

Margaret, almost holding her breath, heard a soft whisper in her ear. “Good-bye, my Margie. I shall always be near you. God bless you.”

Ned, still holding his sweetheart’s hand tightly in his own, felt a soft cheek brush his, and he trembled on the verge of tears. Something told him it was Clare’s farewell to him.

Dr. Sloane fumbled for the electric switch. As he put out his hand to turn it on, the figure of Clifford Bentley dissolved into thin nothingness before the eyes of the dazed members of the circle.

The door opened softly.

Father Rooney, his old face pale and drawn, tiptoed into the room. Without a word he went to Clare’s side, passing the Scotchwoman, who stood looking sadly down upon the lame girl’s slight figure. Upon the white brow he made the sign of a cross reverently. Then he faced the others, a sob rising chokingly in his throat as he spoke, his eyes meeting those of the doctor pityingly.

“Her spirit passed me as I waited without. Our little Clare is with the angels.”

Pickman’s Model – H.P. Lovecraft

You needn’t think I’m crazy, Eliot—plenty of others have queerer prejudices than this. Why don’t you laugh at Oliver’s grandfather, who won’t ride in a motor? If I don’t like that damned subway, it’s my own business; and we got here more quickly anyhow in the taxi. We’d have had to walk up the hill from Park Street if we’d taken the car.

I know I’m more nervous than I was when you saw me last year, but you don’t need to hold a clinic over it. There’s plenty of reason, God knows, and I fancy I’m lucky to be sane at all. Why the third degree? You didn’t use to be so inquisitive.

Well, if you must hear it, I don’t know why you shouldn’t. Maybe you ought to, anyhow, for you kept writing me like a grieved parent when you heard I’d begun to cut the Art Club and keep away from Pickman. Now that he’s disappeared, I go around to the club once in a while, but my nerves aren’t what they were.