. . She entered the last room, his bedroom. Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations. The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. "He shan't go," cried Edgeworth Bess, holding him by the other hand.
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