Gregory knelt in the doorway listening.
“I do not ask for wisdom, not human love, not work, not knowledge, not for all things I have longed for,” she cried; “only a little freedom from pain! Only one little hour without pain! Then I will suffer again.”
She sat up, and bit the little hand Gregory loved.
He crept away to the front door, and stood looking out at the quiet starlight. When he came back she was lying in her usual posture, the quiet eyes looking at the lion’s claw. He came close to the bed.
“You have much pain tonight?” he asked her.
“No, not much.”
“Can I do anything for you?”
“No, nothing.”
She still drew her lips together, and motioned with her fingers toward the dog who lay sleeping at her feet. Gregory lifted him and laid him at her side. She made Gregory turn open the bosom of her nightdress, that the dog might put his black muzzle between her breasts. She crossed her arms over him. Gregory left them lying there together.
Next day, when they asked her how she was, she answered “Better.”