He had looked like that a thousand times, when, seeking for her, he had come upon her, at last, hidden in some shady nook in the garden or swinging in her hammock.

She could almost hear the familiar "Oh, there you are, little pal!" with which he would joyously acclaim her discovery.
She lifted the hand that was resting quietly on his knee.

It lay in hers, flaccid and inert, its dreadful passivity stinging her into realization of the truth.

Patrick was dead.

And, judging from his expression, he had found death "a very good sort of thing," just as he had expected.
For a little while Sara remained standing quietly beside the still figure in the chair.