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Zhou Jia frowned, why is it related to the death of Shamrock's mother?

She continued to turn to the next page, which was blank. Pen ~ fun ~ pavilion www.biquge.info a day later, the diary is restored. It begins with something like this: "My name is Marianne Hooper Adams. Who am I? I've been asking myself this question. Clover spent three days writing out how to meet the former headmistress on Mother's Death Day, how to go to Parker's Cottage, how to meet George, and how to unravel the puzzles of the "Saturday Club."

Zhou Jia sat there motionless, watching very devotedly, while secretly admiring Clover's intelligence and wit, she wondered in her heart, what are those so-called illusions?

Before dinner, Hatti called her to dinner. "How is it the same as reading a novel?

Zhou Jia said: "It's really exciting. She briefly recounted the parts of her diary that she had already read.

"Oh! It seems that this little white face is not small!"

Zhou Jia said: "I just checked, George's full name is George Russell Agassis, and there are indeed people in history. He is the grandson of the famous geologist Louis Agassi, but there is hardly much information about him on the Internet, only a few books signed by him, books about the Civil War, and nothing more. ”

"If it's true that he's the leader of a mysterious organization, as she writes in her diary, it's not hard to hide himself in history!"

After eating, before going to bed, Zhou Jia has been reading Clover's diary. Or for the next few days, she was reading. The rest of the content returns to photography, all of which are very professional content, and it is very boring to read, but I dare not look at it, for fear of missing any details. Fast forward to May of the following year, and Clover took that playful photo of Henry and the Marquis, and later some of her friends, which were a big hit. At this time, Henry publicly expressed his support for her to take pictures for everyone. Shamrock never mentioned the illusion and her mother again, but Zhou Jia had a bad premonition, and it always felt like calm on the eve of a storm.

Generally, Clover will record the time, place, person, shutter and aperture used under the photo, and then the data of the darkroom, such as the different concentration ratios and temperatures of the developer, stopper, fixer, and cleaning solution, as well as the shaking time, but this time there is an extra set of data at the back of the photo, which is written with a red pen, which is very obvious.

June 6, 1884, 2:16 p.m., died

Zhou Jia thought it was strange that this photograph was obviously taken on February 9, 1884, and the person who took it was named Owen Hegerman.

This red font was added by Clover later?

After Zhou Jia quickly flipped through dozens of pages, the red letters reappeared.

The photograph was taken on July 26, 1883, outdoors, with two women sitting under a lemon tree in the garden, a girl in white sitting on the right, she looked up at the lemons on the tree, and another woman in black sitting on the left with her back to the camera, black and misty on her head, unable to see clearly.

Why did the photo from a year ago suddenly appear in the diary at the back?

Zhou Jia then looked at the red letters:

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October 11, 1883, 9:40 p.m., died

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The deceased was the woman in black who sat in the middle, named Alice Boderick.

Zhou Jia turned to more and more red letters in his diary!

She then opened a new diary, dated March 6, 1885. A photo of a person was posted on the page, and the same photo was posted three times, with different degrees of black impurities appearing on each photo. Shamrock thought it was a problem with the rinse, so she washed the other sheets one after another, but each one had a problem. When George examined the negatives, he found that there were no traces on them. At first, the two of them dismissed it as an accident, but as Clover's photos appeared, they began to realize that something was wrong.

Zhou Jia began to read the next diary:

March 26, 1885, Washington, D.C

Thursday was fine

It happened in the early hours of Wednesday morning. It's Thursday, around noon. I read an obituary in the newspaper that Mr. Jimmy Marquis had committed suicide by drinking a bullet at home. I only took a picture of him at the beginning of the month.

I felt the waves of fear rolling in, the chill invading my body, and the room seemed to retreat, gradually shrinking, and even disappearing, leaving me alone.

George walked in from the outside and was startled when he saw me in a state of disarray. He thought I was seeing visions again, and he knew vaguely—no matter how bizarre it was—that he knew that I could always see things that others couldn't, but we didn't talk about it anymore.

He took a breath and asked, "What's wrong with you?" isn't it...... What do you see again?"

I began to cry, tears pouring out uncontrollably, as if my eyes could no longer hold them: "Joe, Mr. Marquis, he's dead...... People I've taken pictures of...... They're all dead......"

"What nonsense are you talking about!"

I couldn't stop crying and said, "It's true...... I've been ...... for a long time Noticed...... The people in the bad photos...... All dead......"

I brought the journal with me and opened one of the pages for him to read.

Densely packed on it is a piece of red letters:

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11 October 1883, Alice Boderick, 9:40 p.m., died

December 17, 1883, Jack Bird, 11:00 p.m., died

February 22, 1884, Del Shakbowen, 2:57 a.m., died

June 6, 1884, Irving Hegerman, 2:16 p.m., died

August 19, 1884, Rich Bendoc, 3:20 p.m., died

And so on and so forth.

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"Don't be foolish, this may just be a coincidence!" Even though he was in the midst of the chaos, I could feel the list stirring in his mind, and his voice revealed hesitation, revealing that he was examining the possibilities one by one. And when he said that, he was just picking the best words to comfort me.

I shook my head desperately and cried, "I've seen them all, I've seen them die! I feel like I'm going crazy, and sometimes I think it can't be true." I can't believe ......"

George was still talking, I didn't want to listen, covered my ears. My heart was bleeding: what scared me the most was that I couldn't take pictures anymore, I couldn't keep a diary!!

He jerked away my hand over my ear and said sternly, "Clover, calm down!"

I've known him for so long and I've never heard him speak out loud to me. I couldn't calm down, and I didn't want to calm down, so I ignored him, tears streaming down my face, a silent resistance.

For a long time he didn't speak, just grabbed me until I dared to look him in the eye, and then he continued: "Actually, there's something I haven't told you. ”

I had a thought. "You're still investigating my mother's death?" I said, "you promised not to pursue it anymore!" I almost shouted, I took out my anger on him with nowhere to go.

"Because we found out about your father before, and you don't want to face him, do you?"

I didn't say anything, of course he was right. Deep down, I didn't want to believe that my father had anything to do with my mother's death.

George suddenly asked, "Do you remember what Ms. Peabody said to you?"

I froze, trying to remember that day. I remember her mentioning my mother, Ms. Fuller, and death...... "She said that Ms. Fuller had a bad omen before she died, and even predicted her own death!"

"How do you remember all these inconsequential things! Just because of a poem that Ms. Fuller wrote, you also think that you can bring death by taking a few pictures?"

I lowered my head, and it was this thought that pushed me into the abyss again and again, and plunged me into hell.

He shook his head and said, "Didn't Ms. Peabody give you this book of poems at that time?"

I nodded and said, "That's my mother's poems, I've read them all." ”

"Think about what she said to you at the end!"

I remembered that sentence and kept her in my diary: she told me to study what "transcendentalism" was, and maybe then I would be able to get to know my mother better. I thought about it for a long time and didn't understand, what did she mean?

Through the blurred teary eyes, I looked at him and kept saying, "I don't understand...... I don't understand...... I can't imagine going on like this anymore. I wish I had fallen asleep today and never woken up again tomorrow, forever...... If I knew that the subject I photographed had died again, I would be crazy! I can't imagine it, and I can't face it...... Hell knows, what exactly I saw, and what ?!! death pictures I took!!"

In the end, I cried and shouted, and even fell into a kind of hysteria.

George let go of my hand, and I fell into his arms like that. He hugged me with open arms, and I let him hold me. "It's going to be fine. He said, "Don't think so, I beg you......"

I could feel my tear-filled cheeks against his chest, and I took a breath in the smell of freshly washed clothes. The smell reassured me and wondered why helplessness didn't feel so bad at this moment, not so humiliating.

I closed my eyes and let my grief run rampant.

I don't know how long it took for me to stop crying, but my face was still wet. He gently wiped away my tears with his fingers and told me things would be fine.

"Shamrock. "I'm sorry for hiding some of your research, but I don't regret it." Because I have some clues and want to investigate them properly, do you want to follow them down with me?"

He whispered, and I closed my eyes and nodded.

Then, his voice was softer: "There are many things that I can't explain to you now, why don't we go to Boston, and I'll take you to meet someone, who probably knows something about your mother." ”

I slowly raised my head, my eyes widened from crying, and I opened my mouth a few times, but I didn't know what to say.

He put his arm around me, gently, almost so lightly that I couldn't feel it.

That's what happened today, George locked the studio before sending me back, and the windows were baffled, and he said he didn't take pictures lately. Let me find an excuse to talk to Henry about going out these days. And we'd go to Boston in secret to meet the man he said, a witness.

That means lying to Henry again. I was hesitating when I suddenly heard the doorbell ringing downstairs.

Someone answered the door. I heard Henry's voice, followed by a woman's high-pitched laughter.

I recognized the voice immediately. Mrs. Elizabeth Cameron, no doubt.

I really don't know how to deal with this woman.

Closing the journal, I'm going to go downstairs at once.

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When Hattie woke up in bed, he found that Zhou Jia was no longer around. It was still early, but he could hear movement outside the bedroom.

He could hear Zhou Jia working and the keyboard clicking. Occasionally, a sigh can be heard, or a chair creaks.

Hattie didn't get up, he could imagine Zhou Jia squinting his eyes and staring intently at the screen. She must have been wearing only that white bathrobe, and the delicate skin of her thighs exposed. He didn't think he needed any blood-spurting lace spikes, seductive black stockings, or Victoria's Secret leopard-print sexy bra, a real charm, in fact, a bathrobe was enough.

Just thinking about it, he felt that his blood was in his veins. Doesn't this damn nightcat sleep? Now Hattie worries more about her body than about her own desires. He could feel that she used to stay up late like this, as a doctor, didn't he know that staying up late was not good for women?

He got up from his bed and walked to the living room. Hearing Zhou Jia and Pierre talking about those mysterious diaries, the two seemed to have reached an agreement, and she nodded frequently.

Hatty didn't interrupt them, but sat down on the long couch next to her.

The call ended quickly.

(To be continued.) )