Of course, she felt the passing hours, too. It made her cling to her old habits—made her walk, eat, lie in her bed, do everything, more stiffly, more neatly, more like a little clockwork doll, than ever. I think she did it, for safety''s sake; or else, to keep the time from running on too fast. I''d watch her take her tea—pick up her cup, sip from it, put it down, pick it up and sip again, like a machine would; or I''d see her sew, with crooked stitches, nervous and quick; and I''d have to turn my gaze. I''d think of the time I had put back the rug and danced a polka with her. I''d think of the day I had smoothed her pointed tooth. I remembered holding her jaw, and the damp of her tongue. It had seemed ordinary, then; but I could not imagine, now, putting a finger to her mouth and it being ordinary . . .
She began to dream again. She began to wake, bewildered, in the night. Once or twice she rose from her bed: I opened my eyes and found her moving queerly about the room. Are you there?'' she said, when she heard me stirring; and she came back to my side and lay and shook. Sometimes she would reach for me. When her hands came against me, though, she''d draw them away. Sometimes she would weep. Or, she would ask queer questions. Am I real? Do you see me? Am I real?''
''Go back to sleep,'' I said, one night. It was a night close to the end.
I''m afraid to,'' she said. ''Oh, Sue, I''m afraid . . .''