Miss Tita gave me a glance of surprise, evidently not seeing a reason
for my impatience. "You mean that she always wears something?
She does it to preserve them."
"Because they are so fine?"
"Oh, today, today!" And Miss Tita shook her head, speaking very low.
"But they used to be magnificent!"
"Yes indeed, we have Aspern's word for that." And as I looked again
at the old woman's wrappings I could imagine that she had not wished
to allow people a reason to say that the great poet had overdone it.
But I did not waste my time in considering Miss Bordereau, in whom
the appearance of respiration was so slight as to suggest that no human
attention could ever help her more. I turned my eyes all over the room,
rummaging with them the closets, the chests of drawers, the tables.
Miss Tita met them quickly and read, I think, what was in them; but she did
not answer it, turning away restlessly, anxiously, so that I felt rebuked,
with reason, for a preoccupation that was almost profane in the presence
of our dying companion. All the same I took another look, endeavoring to
pick out mentally the place to try first, for a person who should wish
to put his hand on Miss Bordereau's papers directly after her death.
The room was a dire confusion; it looked like the room of an old actress.
There were clothes hanging over chairs, odd-looking shabby bundles
here and there, and various pasteboard boxes piled together,
battered, bulging, and discolored, which might have been fifty years old.
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