"Is it correct, or even possible to say a HOUSE has DIED? that was my first impression. The paint was peeling from it's façade in long pale tongues that revealed worm-eaten wood beneath. Some half of the windows were broken out, with those of the upper story boarded over in a haste. The cupola dome had partially caved in, and one end of the house was entire was lower than the other, as if it had shifted on its fundation and would soon collapse. The front doo stood open or perhaps was missing. That entrance was no more than a black rectangle leading into mystery; splintered bullet holes around the jamb explained little. It was through that portal I was certain Bill had run and I made to follow, my musket and my haversack bouncing on my shoulder and back, my breath ragged in my thoat."
Porque por mucho miedo que me de esto,
no vas a tener la suerte de verme renunciar.