Quotes About Bly

I had not gone to bed; I sat reading by a couple of candles. There was a roomful of old books at Bly—last-century fiction, some of it, which, to the extent of a distinctly deprecated renown, but never to so much as that of a stray specimen, had reached the sequestered home and appealed to the unavowed curiosity of my youth.

It was not that I didn't wait, on this occasion, for more, for I was rooted as deeply as I was shaken. Was there a secret at Bly—a mystery of Udolpho or an insane, an unmentionable relative kept in unsuspected confinement?

No evening I had passed at Bly had the portentous quality of this one; in spite of which—and in spite also of the deeper depths of consternation that had opened beneath my feet—there was literally, in the ebbing actual, an extraordinarily sweet sadness.