And then she began to
wonder if her father were still in the next room, or whether
they had taken him away anywhere; if not, he was all alone in
there, as she was in here. It would be some comfort to be with
him, she thought. Madelon knew that he was dead, but death was
an unfamiliar experience with her; and she could not perhaps
clearly separate this hour from all other hours when she had
been hurt, or sorrowful, or frightened, and had run to her
father to be comforted.
She got up, and, opening the door, stole softly into the other
room. It was not quite so dark in there: the windows and
Venetian shutters were wide open, and a lamp in the street
below gave an uncertain light, by which she could just
distinguish the gleam of the mirror, the table in the centre
of the room, and the bed, where the outline of a silent form
was vaguely defined under the white covering sheet. Madelon
had had some half-formed idea of getting on to the bed, and
nestling down by her father, as she had done only the evening
before, when he had put his arm round her, and they had talked
together; but now a chill dread crept over her--a sense of
change, of separation; she had not even the courage to raise
the sheet and look upon his face.
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