Winnie's mind was clear and calm with the ease that came of sleep, but in the center of her being there was a dark spot of indecipherable vividness.
Last night. A dark spot of terror. Laurence had been frightened by what they had done. She wanted him to be frightened.
Death. If she had a child she would suffer—not he. White and holy, she felt herself a beautiful stillness in the turmoil of Laurence's cowardice.
She could not part with this fear. If she had a child Death was her hand from which he could not escape.
Midnight. The street lamps shone into the bedroom, making bright shadows of the drawn shades. The bureau, the bed, bits of furniture here and there, darker than the darkness, reflected the light heavily.
Laurence stood outside the door in the hall. He was trembling, afraid of his own room. He had stayed away all day because he could not see Winnie, because he hoped that when he reached home she would be asleep.
It was quiet. He opened the door and stepped inside. The sudden draught lifted the shades ponderously and let them drop again.
Fresh, clean wind from the quiet midnight street surged into the room. Light floated in under the lifted shades. It seemed as if the wind, cold and shining, were washing away the darkness.
Winnie was awake again. Laurence stood still.