undergarment and put the stocking back in the drawer and closed it. Mrs. Compson’s door was closed. Dilsey stood beside it for a moment, listening. Then she opened it and entered, entered a pervading reek of camphor. The shades were drawn, the room in halflight, and the bed, so that at first she thought Mrs. Compson was asleep and was about to close the door when the other spoke.
“Well?” she said, “What is it?”
“Hit’s me,” Dilsey said. “You want anything?”
Mrs. Compson didn’t answer. After awhile, without moving her head at all, she said: “Where’s Jason?”
“He aint come back yit,” Dilsey said. “Whut you want?”
Mrs. Compson said nothing. Like so many cold, weak people, when faced at last by the incontrovertible disaster she exhumed from somewhere a sort of fortitude, strength. In her case it was an unshakable conviction regarding the yet unplumbed event. “Well,” she said presently, “Did you find it?”