lip. ''See there,'' he says softly. And he gestures to Sue.
She still sits before the upturned boat, but her head has fallen back against the rotten wood and her limbs are spread and loose. A blade of hair, dark at the tip where she has been biting at it, curves to the corner of her mouth. Her eyes are closed, her breaths come evenly. She is quite asleep. The sun slants against her face and shows the point of her chin, her lashes, her darkening freckles. Between the edges of her gloves and the cuffs of her coat are two narrow strips of pinking flesh.
I look again at Richard—meet his eye—then turn back to my painting. I say quietly, ''Her cheek will burn. Won''t you wake her?''
''Shall I?'' He sniffs. ''They are not much used to sunlight, where she comes from.'' He speaks almost fondly, but laughs against the words; then adds in a murmur: ''Nor where she''s going, I think. Poor bitch—she might sleep. She has been asleep since I first got her and brought her here, and has not known it.''
He says it, not with relish, but as if with interest at the idea. Then he stretches and yawns and gets to his feet, and sneezes. The fine weather troubles him. He puts his knuckles to his nose and violently sniffs. ''I beg your pardon,'' he says, drawing out his handkerchief.
Sue does not wake, but frowns and turns her head. Her lower lip
slightly falls. The blade of hair swings from her cheek, but keeps its curve and point. I have lifted my brush and touched it once to my crumbling painting; now I hold it, an inch from the card; and I watch, as she sleeps. Only that. Richard sniffs again, softly curses the heat, the season. Then, as before, I suppose he grows still. I suppose he studies me. I suppose the brush in my fingers drops paint—for I find it later, black paint upon my blue gown. I do not mark it as it falls, however; and perhaps it is my not marking it, that betrays me. That, or my look. Sue frowns again. I watch, a little longer. Then I turn, and find Richard''s eyes upon me.