That he seized it by the neck, struggled with it until he was nearly exhausted, when it suddenly collapsed and shrunk, leaving in his palm the limp, crushed, and delicately perfumed little thread glove which he remembered to have once slipped from her hand.
When he awoke, that perfume seemed to be still in the air, distinct from the fresh but homelier scents of the garden which stole through the window.

A sense of delicious coolness came with the afternoon breeze, that faintly trilled the slanting slats of the blind with a slumberous humming as of bees.

The golden glory of a sinking southern sun was penciling the cheap paper on the wall with leafy tracery and glowing arabesques.

But more than that, the calm of some potent influence--or some unseen presence--was upon him, which he feared a movement might dispel.

The chair at the foot of his bed was empty.