Gronauer, junior's. Topcoat--sable. Louis' hair
thinning. Tonic. O God! let me sleep! Please, God! The wheeze rising in
her closed throat. That little threatening desire that must not shape
itself! It darted with the hither and thither of a bee bumbling against
a garden wall. No! No! Ugh! the vast chills of nervousness. The flaming,
the craving chills of desire!
Just this last giving-in. This one. To be rested and fresh for him
to-morrow. Then never again. The little beaded hand bag. O God! help me!
That burning ache to rest and to uncurl of nervousness. All the thousand
thousand little pores of her body, screaming each one to be placated.
They hurt the entire surface of her. That great storm at sea in her
head; the crackle of lightning down that arm--
"Let me see--Circassian walnut--baby grand--" The pores demanding,
crying--shrieking--
It was then that Carrie Samstag, even in her lovely pink nightdress a
crone with pain, and the cables out dreadfully in her neck, began by
infinitesimal processes to swing herself gently to the side of the bed,
unrelaxed inch by unrelaxed inch, softly and with the cunning born of
travail.
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