—Why am I here? I am afraid to ask why I am here. Solid New York, bear me up! Longer, your cold surface, lift me, hold me!
She swam to get out. She was up from her chair. Humming a tune she did not hear or know of, she lighted the gas: she clasped her short thick hair and thrust it atop her head. The gas danced hard on her eyes and her black hair. She lighted her little stove: she put water to boil: she was very busy swimming to get out.
And when she had drunk two coddled eggs and eaten an orange, she took the blue cover from her couch, folded it carefully away, threw wide her windows: and with the light of the downtown heavens falling in sprays and fluffs of murmurous gold against her sombre carpet, she lay down. Soon she slept.
* * *
Work gripped her. Mr. Johns was delighted with her way of work.
“Dont kill yourself, Mrs. Luve.”
She smiled wistfully. “I shant die.”
He looked at her warmly. “You say that as if you knew.”
“I know.”