Steps in the hall. Is it possible the man has admitted him on his own responsibility against my orders, or has he forced his way, setting his duty before him as an excuse for his impertinence?
Steps up the stairs, along the passage—steps almost at the door.
I spring to my feet, and push back my chair. Who is it? Who is it I hear? I move still farther into the window, I clutch the curtains to steady myself, I put both my hands up to my head, to stifle the wild sob that rises in my throat.
Nearer, nearer! I lean against the window-shutters, and am trembling like one in ague from head to foot, as the door opens, and Marmaduke comes in.
Our eyes meet, and then of a sudden a great calm falls upon me!
----
"She is dead," says he, wearily, and flings himself into the chair near which he is standing. He makes no attempt to come nearer to me, to touch me after that first long eager glance.
As for me, I cannot utter even one poor word. Am I glad? Am I sorry? Am I half mad with joy at the very sight of him? or am I altogether indifferent? I hardly know.
"She is dead." The words keep ringing in my ears. My brain echoes them. "She is dead—dead!"
A clammy moisture, cold and weak, covers my face. My hands fall to my side lifeless.