A night-light burned by the bottles and syringes on the table at the foot of the bed, and, although shaded from the young man's face, still diffused enough light to shoes the servant the figure lying there, and his master, seated beyond the bed, very close to it, still in his day-clothes--still, even, in his velvet cap--his chin propped in his hand, staring down at his patient, utterly absorbed and attentive.
There was nothing particularly alarming in all that, and yet there was that in the room which once more seized the man at his heart and held him there, rigid again, terrified, and, above all, inexpressibly awed.
(At least, that is how I should interpret his description.) He said that it wasn't like the spare bedroom at all, as he ordinarily knew it (and, indeed, it was a mean sort of room when I saw it, without a fireplace, though of tolerable size).

It was like another room altogether, said Thomas.
He tried to listen to what Frank was saying, and I imagine he heard it all quite intelligently; yet, once more, all he could say afterwards was that it was about religion ...

about religion....
So he stood, till he suddenly perceived that the doctor was looking at him with a frown and contorted features of eloquence.

He understood that he was to go.

He closed the door noiselessly; and, after another pause, sped upstairs without a sound in his red cloth slippers.
(IV) When Frank awoke to normal consciousness again, he lay still, wondering what it was all about.