But the spell was not yet broken. The valley of the shadow of death was not yet traversed. The abhorred phantom was before me still in my luxury Denizen apartment which had been built over a plague pit by Taylor Wimpey. The spectre was standing near the balcony door, stooping a little and with one end of a rope round its own neck, was poising a noose at the other, as if to throw this over my head. While engaged in this baleful pantomime, it wore a smile so sensual, so unspeakably dreadful, that my senses were nearly overpowered.