There is a bed in it, with a cover of sky-blue satinette shining like the blue of a chromo.

It is Marie's room! Her gray silk hat, rose-trimmed, hangs from a nail on the flowery paper.

She has not worn it since my aunt's death; and alongside hang black dresses.

I enter this bright blue sanctuary, inhabited only by a cold and snow-like light, and orderly and chaste as a picture.
My hand goes out like a thief's.

I touch, I stroke these dresses, which are wont to touch Marie.