After awhile, chilled and hungry and aching in her
throat, she turned back into the room.
"Being married is horrible," she whispered. "I thought it was such an
adventure."
Going across to the bed she stood looking at him, her eyes filled with
tears and, bending over him, she touched his forehead with her lips.
"Oh, my dear, my dear," she whispered. "I wish you weren't drunk."
He stirred, and his hand made a little, ineffectual movement towards
her, and dropped again.
Something in its weakness, its inadequacy, made her impatient; she felt
it impossible to come near to anything so ineffectual as that futile
hand and, taking the pillow from the other side of the bed, laid it on
the floor. She started to undress and stopped sharp.
"I can't get in my nightgown--in case he wakes up and sees me," she
said. A moment later, rolled in her old plaid travelling rug she lay on
the floor. It did not seem uncomfortable; it did not seem an
extraordinary thing to her for a girl to go to sleep on the floor; she
had her father to thank for immunity from small physical discomforts.
CHAPTER XVI
Marcella was wakened several times during the night; she was cold and
stiff, but only apprehended her discomfort vaguely as she listened to
Louis muttering--mostly in French. Each time she spoke softly to him as
she used to speak to her father when he was ill.
Pages:
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314