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CHAPTER III.
NON DORMIT JUDAS.
The summer darkness closed round the Bayswater villa, but of sleep there
was little for any one in that household during this sad night. Is there
not, in almost every household, a memory of such days and nights--dread
intervals in which the common course of life and time seems to be
suspended, and all the interests of the universe hang upon the fitful
breath of one dear sufferer?
Lonely were the watchers in Mr. Sheldon's house. Georgy was in her own
room, forbidden to disturb the invalid by her restless presence--now
lying down, now pacing to and fro, now praying a little, now crying a
little--the very ideal of helpless misery.
In the sick-room there was no one but the invalid and Ann Woolper. In
the room opposite watched Diana Paget, her door ajar, her senses
sharpened by anxiety, quick to hear the faintest sound of footfall on
the stairs, or to feel the slightest vibration from stealthily opened
door on the story below.
Alone in the study sat Philip Sheldon, at the table where he was
accustomed to write--a blank sheet of paper before him, a pen held
loosely in his outstretched hand, and his eyes fixed in an unseeing gaze
upon the bookcase opposite--the living image of care. Now that the
turmoil of the day was done, and there was silence in the house, he had
set himself to face his position. It was no trifling task which he had to
perform.
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