Then, seeing that it was useless, she walked slowly to the table and sat down in Keyork's chair.
She had been in the place before, and she was as free from any unpleasant fear of the dead company as Keyork himself.

To her, as to him, they were but specimens, each having a peculiar interest, as a thing, but all destitute of that individuality, of that grim, latent malice, of that weird, soulless, physical power to harm, with which timid imaginations endow dead bodies.
She scarcely gave them a glance, and she certainly gave them no thought.
She sat before the table, supporting her head in her hands and trying to think connectedly of what had just happened.

She knew well enough how the Wanderer had lain upon the frozen ground, his head supported on her knee, while the watchman had gone to call a carriage.

She remembered how she had summoned all her strength and had helped to lift him in, as few women could have done.

She remembered every detail of the place, and everything she had done, even to the fact that she had picked up his hat and a stick he had carried and had taken them into the vehicle with her.
The short drive through the ill-lighted streets was clear to her.