The people round him changed as unaccountably as on that first night at
Doctor Blimber's--except Florence; Florence never changed. Old Mrs.
Pipchin dozing in an easy chair, often changed to someone else and Paul
was quite content to shut his eyes again and see what happened next,
without emotion. But one figure with its head upon its hand returned so
often and remained so long, and sat so still and solemn, never speaking,
never being spoken to, and rarely lifting up its face, that Paul began to
wonder languidly if it were real.
"Floy," he said, "what is that?"
"Where, dearest?"
"There, at the bottom of the bed."
"There's nothing there except papa."
The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming to the bedside said:
"My own boy! Don't you know me?"
Paul looked it in the face and thought, was this his father? But the face
so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were in
pain; and before he could reach out both his hands to take it between them
and draw it towards him, the figure turned away quickly from the little
bed, and went out at the door. The next time he observed the figure
sitting at the bottom of the bed, he called to it:
"Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa.
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