TWENTY SEVEN
Breakfast that morning was laid out with remarkable splendour — a feast so abundant and ornate that one might have mistaken it for the celebration of some great occasion. The reason, of course, was the presence of my uncle, whose visits always inspired such lavishness. As I ate, Mr. Henry — ever attentive — continued to heap my plate with whatever delicacies his hands could find upon the table. At last, he placed before me a generous portion of bacon, remarking with a playful smile that I was “losing weight.” He added, half in jest, that he would not have me appear as a “walking corpse” at the forthcoming ball. While speaking thus, he smiled once more and lightly touched my arm. A strange emotion rose within me — a sudden, wordless tremor that swelled and then faded, much like the dying
- Writer
