She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy
walnut bed with a curtain, her gray head propped on a pillow
yellow and moldy with age and lack of sunlight, her voice
cold and strong to the last.

    "But not till I'm gone," she said. "Dont you let a
soul in until I'm gone, do you hear?" Standing beside the bed,
his head in the dim light nimbused by a faint halo of napped,
perfectly white hair, the negro made a brief gesture with his
hand. Miss Emily lay with her eyes open, gazing into the oppo-
site shadows of the room. Upon the coverlet her hands lay on
her breast, gnarled, blue with age, motionless. "Hah" she said.
"Then they can. Let 'em go up there and see what's in that
room. <And you wont be the last one, either.> Fools. <And> Let
'em. <And you wont be the last one> Satisfy their minds that
I am crazy. Do you think I am?" The negro made no reply, no
movement. He stood above the bed, <stooped, haloed like an an-
gel> motionless, musing: a secret and unfathomable soul behind
the death-mask of an ape and haloed like an angel. "Let 'em
go up there and open that door. And you won't be the last one,