It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. "Will you write," asked the doctor, "and tell me how you are getting along?" "Oh, yes!" "The last advice I can give you is this: excite his imagination; get him started with his writing. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be. I don’t know. Even in the daylight, it had a sombre and suspicious air, and seemed to slink back from the adjoining houses, as if afraid of their society. Anna leaned forward, watching the people in the streets. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. He had “put his foot down,” and said she must not go. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. She bolted awake in the large bed which was awash in a sea of silks, furs, and red curtains. Nothing but the constraint of social usage now linked him to her. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. He has three days to live. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself.
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