Colin Jerrold and Anne

i He went through the wide empty house, looking through all the rooms,
trying to find some memory of the happiness he had had there long ago.
The house was full of Anne. Anne's figure crossed the floors before him,
her head turned over her shoulder to see if he were coming; her voice
called to him from the doorways, her running feet sounded on the stairs.
That was her place at the table; that was the armchair she used to curl
up in; just there, on the landing, he had kissed her when he went to
school.

They had given his mother's room to Maisie, and they had put his things
into the room beyond, his father's room. Everything was in its place as
it had been in his father's time, the great wardrobe, the white
marble-topped washstand, the bed he had died on. He saw him lying there
and Anne going to and fro between the washstand and the bed. The parrot
curtains hung from the windows, straight and still.

Jerrold shuddered as he looked at these things.

They had thought that he would want to sleep in that room because he was
married, because Maisie would have the room it led out of.

But he couldn't sleep in it. He couldn't stay in it a minute; he would
never pass its door without that sickening pang of memory. He moved his
things across the gallery into Anne's room.

He would sleep there; he would sleep in the white bed that Anne had
slept in.