pale!'' she says—but not the quick, corrupted blood beneath.
I oughtn''t to do it. I cannot help it. I am too compelled by her idea—her idea of me as a simple girl, abused by circumstance, prone to nightmare. No nightmares come, while she sleeps at my side; and so, I find ways to bring her to my bed, a second night and a third.—At last she comes, routinely. I think her wary, at first; but it is only the canopy and drapes that trouble her: she stands each time with a lifted candle, peering into the folds of cloth. ''Don''t you think,'' she says, ''of the moths and spiders that might be up there, miss, and waiting to drop?'' She seizes a post, and shakes it; a single beetle falls, in a shower of dust.
Once grown used to that, however, she lies easily enough; and from the neat and comfortable way she holds her limbs, I think that she must be used to sleeping with someone; and wonder who.
''Do you have sisters, Sue?'' I ask her once, perhaps a week after she has come. We are walking by the river.
''No, miss.''
''Brothers?''
''Not as I know of,'' she says.
''And so you grew up—like me—quite alone?''
''Well, miss, not what you would call, alone . . . Say, with cousins all about.''
''Cousins. You mean, your aunt''s children?''
''My aunt?'' She looks blank.
''Your aunt, Mr Rivers''s nurse.''
''Oh!'' She blinks. ''Yes, miss. To be sure . . .''