She lay upon the long lounge down-stairs. Day was slipping warmly out
the window, touching the late roses on the porch pillars.
"All I think of ever is that I love you," she wailed. "I value my body
because you think it's beautiful. And this body of mine--of yours--to
have it grow ugly and shapeless? It's simply intolerable. Oh, Anthony,
I'm not afraid of the pain."
He consoled her desperately--but in vain. She continued:
"And then afterward I might have wide hips and be pale, with all my
freshness gone and no radiance in my hair."
He paced the floor with his hands in his pockets, asking:
"Is it certain?"
"I don't know anything. I've always hated obstrics, or whatever you call
them. I thought I'd have a child some time. But not now."
"Well, for God's sake don't lie there and go to pieces."
Her sobs lapsed. She drew down a merciful silence from the twilight
which filled the room. "Turn on the lights," she pleaded. "These days
seem so short--June seemed--to--have--longer days when I was a
little girl."
The lights snapped on and it was as though blue drapes of softest silk
had been dropped behind the windows and the door.
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