Could it be that this house is haunted?I'm face to face with shapeless shadow, Though I stand alone. Could it be that there's a presenceInside this house, Besides my own?The garden fades from green to grey, The fading focus of Goodbye.I let out a sigh.I swallow the urge to cry. Out of this house and onto the street.. Vacant, empty spaces in the faces I meet. Anywhere on earth, Any time of day, The echoed sound of all I say, Of all I hear and in all I see.. Shadows, Phantom faces, Not haunting places. Haunting ME.
There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public. There are worse things than these miniature betrayals, committed or endured or suspected; there are worse thingsthan not being able to sleep for thinking about them. It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking inand stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.
When Olivier had been taken away Gamache had sat back down and stared at the sack. What could be worse than Chaos, Despair, War?What would even the Mountain flee from? Gamache had given it a lot of thought. What haunted people even, perhaps especially, on their deathbed? What chased them, tortured them and brought some of them to their knees? And Gamache thought he had the answer. Regret. Regret for things said, for things done, and not done. Regret for the people they might have been. And failed to be. Finally, when he was alone, the Chief Inspector had opened the sack and looking inside had realize he'd been wrong. The worst thing of all wasn't regret.