"Gerald!" she called, her smoky black hair floating around her and her
arms cutting through the room's blackness. "Gerald!" Suddenly the room
was not black. It was light with the Scandinavian blondness of Gerald,
the head of him nebulous there above the pink-satin canopy of her
dressing table, and, more than that, the drained lakes of his sockets
were deep with eyes. Yes, in all their amazing blueness, but queerly
sharpened to steel points that went through Hester and through her as if
bayonets were pushing into her breasts and her breathing.
"Gerald!" she shrieked, in one more cry that curdled the quiet, and sat
up in bed, trembling and hugging herself, and breathing in until her
lips were drawn shudderingly against her teeth like wind-sucked window
shades.
"Gerald!" And then the picture did a sort of moving-picture fade-out,
and black Lottie came running with her hair grotesquely greased and
flattened to take out the kink, and gave her a drink of water with the
addition of two drops from a bottle, and turned on the night light and
went back to bed.
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