To-day, it was a little painted stand for his watch; tomorrow she would be afraid to leave it, and would substitute some other trifle of her making not so likely to attract his eye.

Waking in the night, perhaps, she would tremble at the thought of his coming home and angrily rejecting it, and would hurry down with slippered feet and quickly beating heart, and bring it away.
At another time, she would only lay her face upon his desk, and leave a kiss there, and a tear.
Still no one knew of this.

Unless the household found it out when she was not there--and they all held Mr Dombey's rooms in awe--it was as deep a secret in her breast as what had gone before it.

Florence stole into those rooms at twilight, early in the morning, and at times when meals were served downstairs.

And although they were in every nook the better and the brighter for her care, she entered and passed out as quietly as any sunbeam, opting that she left her light behind.
Shadowy company attended Florence up and down the echoing house, and sat with her in the dismantled rooms.