There were two narrow beds built against the wall; in one of these the corpse of a grey-haired man was lying.

The dog had seen death before, and he evidently understood what it was.

He did not move quickly or sniff about; he laid his head on the edge of the winding-sheet and moaned a little.
The girl did not moan.

She knelt down some way from the bed, with a desire to pray.

She did not pray; she whispered her anger, her unhappiness, her desires, to the air of the cold, still room, repeating the same phrases again and again with clenched hands and the convulsive gestures of half-controlled passion.
The reason she did not pray was that she believed that she could only pray when she was "good," and after falling on her knees she became aware that goodness, as she understood it, was not in her just then, nor did she even desire it.