Darker Down

A knockturn of the screw, twisted hard, templed against the blight;
a rapping, as one who comes at night, gently calling, “Let me in,
let me in.”  The weak lantern light just enough to illume all that
need be. Inside, behind the bolted door, nestled in the inglenook,
with crackling fire, a drink, a book, the domiciled does not hear the
beckoning even while reading tales of same.  It’s anyone’s guess how
he thinks all his thought brings him gain since by the end of the
latest chapter he truly ever yours remains. . .

same as before, ever after on.