It took Florence a moment, groping into what was past, to understand, to realize; and another moment, while she looked across the bed, through the window, into the open sky, to answer—“Yes.”
With that he closed his eyes and turned away his head, as though there were nothing more in the world to ask. She rose and went to the window.
She seemed to see Julia’s blank eyes—how they had leaped to life at sight of her! And then the girl’s cry!
The sick man slept.
Florence wrestled with emotions, primitive, savage.
That he should ask, with his first breath, that! That with her assurance he should turn from her to sleep, without a look, a word, a memory!
Yet, she told herself, what wonder that the last, violent instant before unconsciousness should rise before him with his reawakening. Had the question any personal significance? Had not his eyes followed her? Didn’t he now turn to her, away from all the rest? Had not the wild girl, with her piece of folly, closed the door on that incident? What could renew it?
It was a question, a cry, half hoping—but she knew it was a forlorn hope.
He reawakened early in the afternoon. His first stir brought her to him, still hot from her conflict with herself. He was stronger this time, more awake to living. He did not ask, but demanded.
“I must get out of here,” he said.