His study is real cold; the back of his big chair is smooth like an icicle. I know every object in this room, but it is as if I have never stepped across the threshold before.The newspaper folded on the desk says January 18, 1901. I still can’t get used to it, this century I mean. It sounds most improbable.Doctor Gallagher said he would have to show me if I couldn’t take his word for it. But I’ve never seen Daddy without his necktie, even. I guess I always thought he was a modest kind of man. So when it came to it, today, I just couldn’t bear to lift the sheet that went up to his chin.Daddy’s face looked kind of peeved, like when Momma was alive and dinner went on too long and I could tell he wanted to stroll down to the saloon on Seventh and smoke a great black cigar.He looked the same last Saturday, the last time I saw him—only he seemed clammy, then, somehow. Was it the pain? It strikes me now, he must have known; he must have felt it coming. Nobody ever could pull the wool over Daddy’s eyes.
