‘Suppose you had a dream,’ Graham said slowly, thoughtfully, ‘and in your dream you saw there was only one way—should you have the courage to take it? I mean, if it was a way that seemed to lead into the darkness?—death!’
‘Death!’ Brocklehurst looked at him as he repeated the word. ‘No,’ he half whispered, ‘not that—I hate the idea of it. I hate everything connected with it.’
‘Still——’
‘Have you ever seen a dead person?’
‘No.’
‘I have, then—once.... I was made to look.... It was my grandfather.... But I’ll never look again at anything of that kind—never—never—never.... He was so changed—you can’t think.... His face and hands were like wax.... His hands.... Oh, I didn’t like them.... I saw them that night after I had gone to bed ... they were on the bedclothes ... they came closer and closer ... it was horrible.... No, no, there was no garden for him, believe me!—nothing—nothing any more.’