the corner where she stands with something like profane and sumptuous
beauty. Her changeful chestnut hair, like bronze and gold, forms moist
and disordered scrolls on her forehead and her innocent cheeks. Her
neck, especially, her white neck, appears to me. The atmosphere is so
choking, so visibly heavy, that it enshrouds us as if the room were on
fire, and she has loosened the neck of her dress, and her throat is
lighted up by the flaming logs. I smile weakly at her. My eyes wander
over the fullness of her hips and her outspread shoulders, and fasten,
in that downfallen room, on her throat, white as dawn.

* * * * * *

The doctor has been again. He stood some time in silence by the bed;
and as he looked our hearts froze. He said it would be over to-night,
and put the phial in his hand back in his pocket. Then, regretting
that he could not stay, he disappeared.

And we stayed on beside the dying woman--so fragile that we dare not
touch her, nor even try to speak to her.

Madame Piot settles down in a chair; she crosses her arms, lowers her
head, and the time goes by.

At long intervals people take shape in the darkness by the door; people
who come in on tiptoe whisper to us and go away.

The moribund moves her hands and feet and contorts her face. A
gurgling comes from her throat, which we can hardly see in the cavity
that is like a nest of shadow under her chin. She has blenched, and
the skin that is drawn over the bones of her face like a shroud grows