I made a reluctant return to Hauteville House after a brief walk
out of doors, knowing I was due to take up my post at Papa's
bedside again. "Good morning, Papa," I said as I sat down on the
straight-backed chair beside him. His lids flickered but my
greeting evoked no more response than that. He lay stiff and still
as a log, his eyes open but empty of expression; half-closed, they
lay under his bony brow like faded blue marbles. I folded my hands
in my lap and fixed my gaze on them. In a few minutes, Papa's
breath slowed and deepened as he slept and I let my mind wander as
it had for all the long days I had spent on watch at this bedside.
For fifteen years I had been a slave to this mysterious affliction
he endured, waiting, watching, while my youth drained away and my
joie de vivre faded into ashes. I hated him, I hated this life, I
hated this house. I was continually struck by the irony that only a
slight mispronunciation of its name made it "Hateful House." But so
far I had carefully masked my feelings under civility and good
manners. Nothing ever seemed to change but change was about to
occur. For better or worse, I couldn't predict.
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