The faces round me, mobile with life, wearied me.

I was indifferent to existence, and was more than once in danger of lapsing into the void I had escaped.
When I first tottered downstairs, he had been buried more than three weeks.

It was a bright morning; the windows of the parlor, where Charlotte led me, were open.

Little Edward was playing round the table upon which I had seen his father stretched, dead.

I measured it with my eye, remembering how tall he looked.