I had taken in about a thousandth fraction of my great calamity by that time.

Every moment was giving to me some additional possession of it.
Some one at that instant called Richard, in that subdued tone that people use about a house in which there is one dead.
"I have got to go," he said, uneasily.

I still kept hold of his hand.
"But I will come back before very long; and I will tell Bettina to bring a chair and sit outside your door, and not let any one come in." "That will do," I said, letting go his hand, "only I don't want my door shut tight." I felt as if the separation were not so entire, so tremendous, while I could hear what was going on below, and know that no door was shut between us--no door! Bettina, in a moment more, had taken up her station in the passage-way outside.
I heard people coming and going quietly through the hall below.

I heard doors softly shut and opened.
I knew, by some intuition, that _he_ was lying in the library.

They moved furniture with a smothered sound; and when I heard two or three men sent off on messages by Richard, even the horses' hoofs seemed to be muffled as they struck the ground.