window-shades now and folding up the paper—it was better to do something—and then fell to walking up and down the room. He had walked up and down this room before when John Sheldon had been upstairs, but the fear of death had not been as terrible as this.
It seemed as if John never would come. Perhaps he'd better try reading. A magazine. Or the paper. An editorial, perhaps. He sat down. Where was the editorial page, anyway? Never mind! He got up and began walking up and down the room again. Awful—this waiting. Worse than when Sheilah was born. That same bitter taste in the back of his mouth again. That same sensation of dropping through space, when some unexpected noise, like the clock striking, or the milkman's truck outside, startled him. That same horrible pressure afterwards on his chest, as if he'd fallen finally, and the blow had turned his breath into something thick, which could be drawn only with difficulty through tubes too small. What in heaven's name took John so long, anyhow? He had said a half an hour. Already thirty-five minutes had crawled by. This delay was not a favorable omen. Oh, poor Sheilah! Poor Sheilah! What was he to do with her? Where was he to take her? And Dora! Who was to tell Dora? John would have to tell Dora. John would have to put that knife in.
