He had not
drunk his milk, so neither had Claire hers. The two glasses stood
untouched upon her desk, where she had placed them at noon. It was so
still in the room Claire would have thought the boy had fallen asleep,
worn out with his struggles, but for the quick, catching breaths that,
like soundless sobs, escaped him every now and then. It had been dark a
long, long time when, suddenly, a shaft of light from a just lit window
opposite, struck over across to them, reflecting into the shadow, and
making visible Radcliffe's little figure cowering back in the shelter
of a huge leather armchair. He looked so pitifully small and appealing,
that Claire longed to gather him up in her arms, but she forebore and
sat still and waited.
Then, at last, just as the clock of a nearby church most solemnly boomed
forth eight reverberating strokes, a chastened little figure slid out of
the great chair, and groped its way slowly, painfully along until it
reached Claire's side.
"I will--be--good!" Radcliffe whispered chokingly, so low she had to
bend her head to hear.
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