Gerald could not save her from it. He, his body, his motion, his
life--it was the same ticking, the same twitching across the dial, a
horrible mechanical twitching forward over the face of the hours. What
were his kisses, his embraces. She could hear their tick-tack,
tick-tack.
Ha--ha--she laughed to herself, so frightened that she was trying to
laugh it off--ha--ha, how maddening it was, to be sure, to be sure!
Then, with a fleeting self-conscious motion, she wondered if she would
be very much surprised, on rising in the morning, to realise that her
hair had turned white. She had FELT it turning white so often, under
the intolerable burden of her thoughts, und her sensations. Yet there
it remained, brown as ever, and there she was herself, looking a
picture of health.
Perhaps she was healthy. Perhaps it was only her unabateable health
that left her so exposed to the truth. If she were sickly she would
have her illusions, imaginations. As it was, there was no escape. She
must always see and know and never escape.
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