She leaned there and yearned, and argued; she could not move.
She stayed there long. Then, in dim eyes, she left the window, she threw herself upon the bed.
She fell asleep.
She awoke.
It was very dark. About her was nothing. About her was no obstruction. She was aware of her breathing as of an intruder. She rose from her bed. All of the weight was within, all of the clutter was within, all of the pain was within. She moved outside herself with a vast, sweet freedom, for outside her was nothing.
She went to the window and jumped out.
How long David had held Helen in his embrace, he did not know. It was almost like sleep: measureless. Now waking from her arms, he felt her there like a world in which he dwelt.
She was drawing herself away. She took his hand.
“You must go, now, Dear,” she said. “It is late, you know.”