Oh, why wasn't somebody kind to her? Why wasn't there somebody who
would take her in their arms, and hold her to their breast, and give
her rest, pure, deep, healing rest. Oh, why wasn't there somebody to
take her in their arms and fold her safe and perfect, for sleep. She
wanted so much this perfect enfolded sleep. She lay always so
unsheathed in sleep. She would lie always unsheathed in sleep,
unrelieved, unsaved. Oh, how could she bear it, this endless unrelief,
this eternal unrelief.
Gerald! Could he fold her in his arms and sheathe her in sleep? Ha! He
needed putting to sleep himself--poor Gerald. That was all he needed.
What did he do, he made the burden for her greater, the burden of her
sleep was the more intolerable, when he was there. He was an added
weariness upon her unripening nights, her unfruitful slumbers. Perhaps
he got some repose from her. Perhaps he did. Perhaps this was what he
was always dogging her for, like a child that is famished, crying for
the breast. Perhaps this was the secret of his passion, his forever
unquenched desire for her--that he needed her to put him to sleep, to
give him repose.
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