It was yet another dark and stormy night. Emma lay in bed with the lamp on, staring at the ceiling. She was listening to her little radio. A serial killer, known as Hack n Ripper, had escaped from the local prison. Dear me.
Globules of blood began to form on the ceiling plaster above Emma’s bed, dripping down onto her counterpane; blood seeping from the room above. (How very Thomas Hardy! How very Tess of the d’Urbervilles!)
Emma failed to notice. She turned out the light, drew the bed covers tightly around her neck (she couldn’t stand having a draughty hole in the bedding) and slumbered off.
How sweet the dreams! How never the morning.