''No, no,'' he says. ''Not while you keep so contrary. I shall have it, tonight.'' He puts it in his pocket, and I am too weary to try to take it from him. He stands and yawns, wipes his face, rubs hard at his eyes. ''How tired I am!'' he says. ''It is past three o''clock, do you know?'' I say nothing, and he shrugs. But he lingers at the foot of the bed, looking down, in a hesitating manner, at the place at my side; then he sees my face, and pretends to shudder.
''I should not be astonished, after all,'' he says, ''to wake to the grip of your fingers at my throat. No, I shall not risk it.''
He steps to the fire, wets his thumb and finger upon his tongue, puts out the candle; then he sits in a huddle in the arm-chair and makes a blanket of his coat. He swears against the cold, the pose, the angles of the chair, for perhaps a minute. But he sleeps, sooner than I do.
And when he does, I rise, go quickly to the window, put the curtain back. The moon is still bright, and I don''t want to lie in darkness. But after all, every surface that takes up the silver light is strange to me; and when once I reach, to put my fingers to some mark upon the wall, the mark and the wall in taking my touch seem only to grow stranger. My cloak and gown and linen are closed in▒本▒作▒品▒由▒思▒兔▒網▒提▒供▒線▒上▒閱▒讀▒
the press. My bags are shut. I look, and look, for something of mine; and see only at last, in the shadow of the wash-hand stand, my shoes. I go to them, and stoop, and place my hands upon them. Then I draw back and almost straighten; then touch them again.