But not even yet did she
understand the full meaning of what had happened, nor clearly
comprehend all that she had to dread. She was not really
afraid that her father would not recover; she knew indeed that
he was very ill, much worse than he had ever been at Florence,
and that it might be a long, long time before he would be well
again, but she did not think that he was going to die. She had
asked the question indeed, prompted by an instinctive terror
that had seized her, but in fact she hardly knew what death
meant, much less had she ever conceived of her father as dead,
or imagined life without him. Nevertheless, the sudden panic
had left a nameless, unrecognized fear lurking somewhere,
which gave an added intensity to her desire that he would wake
up and speak to her once more; and sometimes the beating of
her own heart seemed to deafen her, so that she could not hear
the sound of his heavy irregular breathing, and then nothing
but the dread of disturbing him could have prevented her from
jumping up and going to him to make sure that he was still
sleeping.
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