She looked over her fan, the top of which was pressed against her face, long enough to wonder if her father really slept or if, aware of her, he only kept consciously quiet.
Did his eyes truly fix her between lids partly open, and was she to take this--his forebearance from any question--only as a sign again that everything was left to her?
She at all events, for a minute, watched his immobility--then, as if once more renewing her total submission, returned, without a sound, to her own quarters.
A strange impulse was sharp in her, but it was not, for her part, the desire to shift the weight.

She could as little have slept as she could have slept that morning, days before, when she had watched the first dawn from her window.

Turned to the east, this side of her room was now in shade, with the two wings of the casement folded back and the charm she always found in her seemingly perched position--as if her outlook, from above the high terraces, was that of some castle-tower mounted on a rock.

When she stood there she hung over, over the gardens and the woods--all of which drowsed below her, at this hour, in the immensity of light.

The miles of shade looked hot, the banks of flowers looked dim; the peacocks on the balustrades let their tails hang limp and the smaller birds lurked among the leaves.