Clara was up. “You’ll catch your death of cold....”
“No, no,” said Fanny. She stood there naked. Her arms were lifted above her. “I’m not cold. There are stars and sun in this room ... they are racing through me.”
“You’re mad, dear,” said Clara. She was close. She placed her hands on the naked woman’s shoulders. Their eyes met. Clara’s eyes and face went down. Very lightly she touched her lips upon the throat of Fanny.
“Dress.... Hurry.” Clara went back to her chair; half-turned away she fingered the fallen Bible. There was a new warm glow between them in the room.
Fanny dressed silent, fast.
“Why do you want to move about?” She seated herself in her wrapper before Clara on the bed. “I don’t feel like walking. I’ll close the windows. I’ll make the bed in a jiffy. You stay.”
“Go and make yourself some coffee. I’ll fix the couch.”
“I’ll make coffee for two.”
“Alright.”
They sat at last, quiet in the clear sunlit room, and smiled at each other. Sleep and the night were gone, with the bed turned couch.