He got up from the chair and went and stood by her bed. It was narrow. He stood there as he had stood on her last morning. Of course, looking at her that morning, he had had no idea how bad she was. He had gone into her room when she had not turned up as usual at nine o’clock sharp with his breakfast tray, which he liked to have in his own room, by himself. He went into her room in his dressing gown and slippers, and she was lying there in bed doing nothing, not even looking, although her eyes were open, and he was so surprised to see her, it had been so long since he had seen her lying in bed, that he said, “What are you doing in bed, Rose?” And she said, “Nothing.” Her voice had been perfectly normal. He started to make some little joke that would lead him around to reminding her of the breakfast tray, when she said, in the same perfectly normal voice, “I have a terrible pain in my chest.” And the minute she had said those words he felt the pain in his own chest, but with him it was not new but too familiar. He had often told her that pain was familiar to him, and here it was now again, his message from that treacherous old heart of his that was going to be the death of him someday, and he put his hand up to his own chest and said, “Will I call the doctor? He can have a look at me too as long as he’s here.” But Rose had not answered him. Instead, she began looking at him, and her eyes that he had always considered frightened and not direct, even furtive, preoccupied, and worried — those shaded green eyes suddenly seemed to belong to her, as though she had taken command of them for the first time and was asserting her right to see for herself, and to look, and not to look at just anything but to look at everything, and then to choose what she really wanted; not that she would not see all the rest, but that she would look at and possess what responded to her, and if what responded was joy she would look at joy, and if what responded was pain, then she would look at pain, and if what responded was cruelty she would look at cruelty, until cruelty, like pain and joy, turned again and turned again and turned at last to show her what she had chosen to see in the first place, a face that was disposed to smile on her, eyes that seemed to recognize her, a heart that was inclined to value her, and hands that knew her but that wanted her just the same, just as she was, whatever she was.