The long pier glass in darkness was like black silver. It was as though he had never seen himself move formlessly forward on its surface. He was cold. He could not stay there.
Softly and quickly, he went out into the hall and mounted the stairs again. He put his hand on the knob of the bedroom door and fancied that it swung inward of itself.
Dr. Beach had gone, but the nurse was still in the room. She had her back turned to the door and was folding up some clothes. The gas flame had been extinguished. The window curtains were open. Objects in the room were plainly visible, throwing no anchorage of shadow about them.
Laurence went toward the bed. He set his feet down carefully as if he were afraid of being heard.
When he reached Her, he saw She had not moved. She would never move. A sob of agony and relief shook him from head to foot.
The nurse coughed discreetly. Scarcely aware of it, he heard her starched dress rustle and her shoes creak as she tiptoed out.
He knelt down by the bed. The last hour of Winnie's suffering was yet real and terrible to him.
He pulled the sheet back from Her face. She had not moved. She was dead.
Stillness revolved about him in eternal motion.
Winnie lay in the center of quickness. She was dead. He wanted to rush out of the circle filled with Her warmth.