Laurence went out of the death chamber into the hall, where the gray light of the cold spring morning came dimly from the street through the transom. A milk cart stopped outside. He could hear the clatter of tins, as it came to a halt, and the hurrying feet of the driver running down the area steps and up again. Bottles were jostled together with a dull clink. The man outside whistled. The horse's shoes chimed on the cold hard street, and the milk wagon rumbled away, the noises blurring in distance. There were more footsteps, dull, methodic. One man called to another. There was a musical shiver of breaking glass, curses uttered in a hoarse male voice, and the flat thud of running feet. Laurence opened the front door and looked into the street. Above the dull housetops were stone blue clouds. The arc light burning over the pavement opposite was like a ball of pale unraveling silk. On the windows of the houses with their lowered blinds, the sunless day was reflected in livid brightness. He could not bear the light and he turned back into the house into the darkened parlor, where the leaves of plants on the stand in the corner seemed to burn with a bluish fire. He could see the begonia leaves like pink hairy flesh, and the gray fur of fern fronds. The long pier glass in darkness was like black silver. It was as though he had never seen himself move formlessly forward on its surface. He was cold. He could not stay there. Softly and quickly, he went out into the hall and mounted the stairs again. He put his hand on the knob of the bedroom door and fancied that it swung inward of itself. Dr. Beach had gone, but the nurse was still in the room. She had her back turned to the door and was folding up some clothes. The gas flame had been extinguished. The window curtains were open. Objects in the room were plainly visible, throwing no anchorage of shadow about them. Laurence went toward the bed. He set his feet down carefully as if he were afraid of being heard. When he reached Her, he saw She had not moved. She would never move. A sob of agony and relief shook him from head to foot. The nurse coughed discreetly. Scarcely aware of it, he heard her starched dress rustle and her shoes creak as she tiptoed out. He knelt down by the bed. The last hour of Winnie's suffering was yet real and terrible to him. He pulled the sheet back from Her face. She had not moved. She was dead. Stillness revolved about him in eternal motion. Winnie lay in the center of quickness. She was dead. He wanted to rush out of the circle filled with Her warmth. The stillness revolved again. She held Her pain shut in Her. He would never know it again. He hated to leave the room where the silence was quick. Out of the silence his pain was waiting to grasp him. About Winnie the house revolved in wider and wider circles at the edge of which Her quickness died away.