(3)from terror, weave this garment for nothingness?IIMeanwhile, nothing stirred in the drawing room, or in thedining room, or on the staircase. Only, through the rustyhinges and swollen sea-moistened wood-work certain airs,detached from the body of the wind, crept round corners andventured indoors. Almost one might imagine them questioning,wondering, as they gently attempted the flap of hanging wallpaper -- would it, they seemed to ask, hang much longer; whenwould it fall? Then, smoothly brushing the walls, they passedon, musingly, as if asking the red and yellow flowers on thewall paper whether they would fade, and questioning, (gently -there was time at their disposal) the torn letters in the wastepaper basket, the flowers, the books, all of which were nowopen to them, in communion with them, and softly illumined, nowand then, by a beam from the light house. So wandering throughthe rooms and reaching the kitchen they paused to ask of thetable and the silver-tailed saucepans ranged orderly on theshelf, the same question; how long would they endure, of whatnature were they? Were they made of wind and rain, allies, withwhom in the darkness, wind and rain might commune? Were theyobdurate? Time would show.So, the light directing them with its pale footfall, onstep, on mat, on wall, the little airs passed, paused, mountedthe staircase, nosed at the bedroom doors. Here, one might
