There was a crash, then a shower of crashes;
falling tin clamoured to be heard above the shattering of porcelain;
and over all rose Fanny's wail of lamentation for the treasures saved
from the sale, but now lost forever to the "kitchenette." Fanny was
nervous indeed; so nervous that she could not trust her hands.
For a moment George thought she might have been injured, but, before
he reached the kitchen, he heard her sweeping at the fragments, and
turned back. He put off speaking to Fanny until morning.
Things more insistent than his vague plans for a sofa-bed in Bronson's
office had possession of his mind as he went upstairs, moving his hand
slowly along the smooth walnut railing of the balustrade. Half way to
the landing he stopped, turned, and stood looking down at the heavy
doors masking the black emptiness that had been the library. Here he
had stood on what he now knew was the worst day of his life; here he
had stood when his mother passed through that doorway, hand-in-hand
with her brother, to learn what her son had done.
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