“Gone away, gone away,” she cried. “I am yours and you gone away.”
But words were too involved. She beat at the pillows and screamed. When he came back she would kill him. While he sat in his chair writing she would creep close and drive a knife. That was what would happen to him because he no longer loved her and because he had beaten her to say goodbye.
It was day outside. When it grew dark again he would come back. She would wait, but not as before. She was no longer his.
In her room Rita bathed herself and searched for her old clothes. She found them [One Hundred Five] hidden—the wide dress with red and yellow stripes, the many blue and scarlet petticoats that she had worn when he brought her home from the caravan; the long black earrings, the green and orange shawl for her head. She put these on. They hid the vivid marks on her body.
Dressed in her gypsy clothes she came into the room again. It would be long to wait. But darkness would come and then he would open the door again. She lay down on the couch and sighed.
[opp. 106]
Seventh Drawing
[One Hundred Seven]
[VII]
