She had knelt down by the sofa, and lifted up her face as if she saw somebody. All at once she started in terror, and hastily, and with a shudder, she raised herself.
“Great heavens! there it is coming again,” she thought, becoming once more conscious of herself.
There seemed to be a struggle going on in her brain, a struggle between her impotent senses and her ever-increasing madness. With an uncertain movement she took up a book which was lying on the table, and opened it, to force herself to be sensible and to read. It was the score of Le Tribut de Zamora, which she had once procured during her passion for Fabrice. She dared not look up, fearing lest she might see her insanity take some hideous shape before her eyes. She dared not move, out of terror for herself, and she would gladly have saved her fleeing senses had she been able, as it were, to pass away out of her own self. And the ray of sunshine once more filled the room, glowing over the satin of the curtains and reflecting itself back in the china of the Japanese vases and the polished glittering brass of the ornaments. Softly she began to sing something to herself, quite unconsciously, in a voice hoarse and raw with endless coughing. Then there was a knock at the door.
“Who is there?” she asked, alarmed.
“’Tis I, miss,” cried a voice; “I’ve brought you your lunch.”
“No, thank you, Sophie, I have no appetite.”
“Will you not take anything, miss?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then you will ring, miss, when you want something, will you not?”
“Yes, yes.”