in the folds of the closely-drawn curtains.

When he looked at the bed now, he saw hanging over the side of it
a long white hand.

It lay perfectly motionless midway on the side of the bed, where
the curtain at the head and the curtain at the foot met. Nothing
more was visible. The clinging curtains hid everything but the
long white hand.

He stood looking at it, unable to stir, unable to call
out--feeling nothing, knowing nothing--every faculty he possessed
gathered up and lost in the one seeing faculty. How long that
first panic held him he never could tell afterward. It might have
been only for a moment--it might have been for many minutes
together. How he got to the bed--whether he ran to it headlong,
or whether he approached it slowly; how he wrought himself up to
unclose the curtains and look in, he never has remembered, and
never will remember to his dying day. It is enough that he did go
to the bed, and that he did look inside the curtains.

The man had moved. One of his arms was outside the clothes; his
face was turned a little on the pillow; his eyelids were wide
open. Changed as to position and as to one of the features, the
face was otherwise fearfully and wonderfully unaltered. The dead
paleness and the dead quiet were on it still.

One glance showed Arthur this--one glance before he flew
breathlessly to the door and alarmed the house.