The light grew intense and terrible, but he
could not lift his hand to shade his eyes. Slowly the orange deepened to
scarlet in which he spun around giddily among myriads of blood-red
disks. The scarlet grew brighter and brighter until it became a white,
streaming light. All at once the swaying stopped.
The intensity of the white light was agreeably tempered by a grey mist.
Through the vapour, he saw the outlines of his own chiffonier, across
the room. A woman in spotless white moved noiselessly about. Even though
she did not look at him, he felt a certain friendliness toward her. She
seemed to have been with him while he swayed through the shadow and it
was pleasant to know that he had not been alone.
On the table near the window, his violin lay as he had left it. The case
was standing in a corner and his music stand had toppled over. The torn
sheets of music rustled idly on the floor, and he wondered, fretfully,
why the woman in white did not pick them up.
As if in answer to his thought, she stooped, and gathered them together,
quietly sorting the pages and putting them into the open drawer that
held his music.
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