So that Winifred, with a child's
subtle instinct for avoiding the painful things, behaved as if nothing
serious was the matter. Instinctively, she withheld her attention, and
was happy. Yet in her remoter soul, she knew as well as the adults
knew: perhaps better.
Her father was quite well in his make-belief with her. But when she
went away, he relapsed under the misery of his dissolution. But still
there were these bright moments, though as his strength waned, his
faculty for attention grew weaker, and the nurse had to send Winifred
away, to save him from exhaustion.
He never admitted that he was going to die. He knew it was so, he knew
it was the end. Yet even to himself he did not admit it. He hated the
fact, mortally. His will was rigid. He could not bear being overcome by
death. For him, there was no death. And yet, at times, he felt a great
need to cry out and to wail and complain. He would have liked to cry
aloud to Gerald, so that his son should be horrified out of his
composure.
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