He felt suddenly feverish in his cold clothes.
She reached out and touched him. The feel of her hand flowed along his hand and up the veins of his arm. He felt as though her hand had been laid upon his heart. His heart beat quickly. He denied his heart. He was passive. He stood apart from himself. He was unrelated to Winnie, sick and tense in the bed.
"Laurie!" she whispered again. She drew him down beside her.
"You are sick, Winnie," he said. Sure of himself, he did not resist her.
She reached up, groping to cover his mouth. It made her angry when he told her she was sick. She did not want him to build up words between them. She tried to draw him into herself, into the formlessness of contact.
"Oh, I can't sleep, Laurie! I want you to love me."
"I do love you, Winnie. If I seem not to love you it is because you are sick."
"I'm not sick! I won't be sick. You don't love me!"
"I do!"
"Please love me! I'll die if you don't love me, Laurie!"