He went to the bath-room, moving like a sleepwalker, wrapped in his dream-like horror. He found the ice, he broke it into little pieces, like that. He was very careful and conscientious about the size, and grateful to Anne for giving him something to do. Then he went back again and took up his station at the foot of the bed and waited. His father still lay back on his pillow, propped by Eliot's arm. His hands were folded on his chest above the bedclothes.
Anne still stood by the bed holding her basin and her towel ready. From time to time they gave him little pieces of ice to suck.
Once he opened his eyes, looked round the room and spoke. "Is your mother there?"
"Do you want her?" Eliot said.
"No. It'll only upset her. Don't let her come in."
He closed his eyes and opened them again.
"Is that Anne?"
"Yes. Who did you think it was?"
"I don't know…I'm sorry, Anne."
"Darling—" the word broke from a tender inarticulate sound she made.