He ran straight upstairs and kissed her. He was almost afraid to ask:
“ Didn’t you get up, pigeon?”
“ No,” she said, “it was that morphia; it made me tired.”
“ I think he gives you too much,” he said.
“ I think he does,” she answered.
He sat down by the bed, miserably. She had a way of curling and lying on her side, like a child. The grey and brown hair was loose over her ear.
“ Doesn’t it tickle you?” he said, gently putting it back.
“ It does,” she replied.
His face was near hers. Her blue eyes smiled straight into his, like a girl’s—warm, laughing with tender love. It made him pant with terror, agony, and love.
“ You want your hair doing in a plait,” he said. “Lie still.”
And going behind her, he carefully loosened her hair, brushed it out. It was like fine long silk of
