![]() Raoul pulled out the hidden drawer beneath one of the shelves and read the newspaper – now yellow and faded – as he had every night for three years like a consuming obsession. And in those desperate nights, at least, it had been true. ![]() Erik’s opera house, so Christine had told him. Erik – so he called himself - had almost brought the mighty Paris opera house to its knees. This man, this ‘Phantom’, who at once was angel, ghost, maestro, architect, and magician had held them all in his not insubstantial power. But now he understood the terrible bewitchment, for it was his now to bear. The Angel had many names, and many guises Raoul had once laughed scornfully at Christine’s infatuation with the Angel of Music. A masked man of magic, of music and of murder. For once the Angel of Death had been a man. The Angel of Death stalked the De Chagny’s so the whispers said.
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