Anxiety, ser’s green gazes, needles me ao bed?  o t  o Emmeline? More t it is raug torments my conscience s slo out of sleep.

    knoime it is. Juditir and o my lips. I drink. Before I can speak, sleep overwhelms me again.

    time I er  my bedside, book in  cus ufts of pale y co throne for a joke.

    ed her head from her reading.

    ‘Dr. Clifton emperature.“

    I said nothing.

    ‘e didn’t kno  on. ”e couldn’t find a card. e don’t go in muc we broughe garden.“

    In t y purple flo, heady fragrance.

    ‘ hday?“

    ‘You told us. o tell me your story, Margaret?“

    ‘Me? I  got a story,“ I said.

    ‘Of course you ory.“

    ‘Not me.“ I sinct echoes of words I may have spoken in my sleep.

    Miss inter placed t he book.

    ‘Everybody ory. It’s like families. You mig kno t all t drift apart or you migurn your back on t you can’t say you  got tories. So,“ sory. o tell me yours?“

    ‘I’m not.“

    S o one side and ed for me to go on.

    ‘I’ve never told anyone my story. If I’ve got one, t is. And I can’t see any reason to change now.“

    ‘I see,“ sly, nodding ’s your business, of course.“ Surned ared into  liberty to say not is . But silence is not a natural environment for stories. t t you.“ o me. ”Believe me, Margaret. I know.“

    For long stretcime I slept, and ake tray a at seeing my leavings, yet sioned it. I  ed by t nig pursued me into sleep.

    ‘?“

    :  Miss Emmeline ting on in years.

    ance to spell it out told me everyted to kno  .

    As for Aurelius, te. As soon as I ter. Not satisfied, I attempted anoty reed versions t I despaired at myself, I selected one at random and made a neat copy:

    Dear Aurelius,Are you all right?

    I’m so sorry about o  anyone. I  I?

    hen can I see you?

    Are ill friends?

    MargaretIt would o do.

    Dr. Clifton came. ened to my  and asked me lots of questions. “Insomnia? Irregular sleep? Nightmares?”

    I nodded times.

    ‘I t so.“

    ook a ter and instructed me to place it under my tongue, trode to to me,  do you read?”

    iter in my mout reply.

    “uts—you’ve read t?”

    ‘Mm-hmm.“

    ‘And Jane Eyre?“

    ‘Mm.“

    “Sense and Sensibility?”

    ‘hm-m.“

    urned and looked gravely at me. “And I suppose you’ve read than once?”

    I nodded and he frowned.

    ‘Read and reread? Many times?“

    Once more I nodded, and his frown deepened.

    ‘Since childhood?“

    I  compelled by ty of his gaze, nodded once again.

    Beneato slits. I could quite see  frigients into getting  to be rid of him.

    And to me to read ter.

    People look different from close up. A dark broill a dark bro you can see t,  ferayed off in tion of emple, pointed to t  almost imperceptible flaring of trils, t tc taken it for severity, a clue t  little of me; but no from so feo me t it mig be disapproval after all. as it possible, I t, t Dr. Clifton ly laug me?

    er from my mout t afflicts ladies of romantic imagination. Symptoms include fainting, ite, los. o  in freezing rain  t of adequate erproofing, to be found in some emotional trauma. e novels, your constitution  been ions of life in earlier, uries. No tuberculosis, no cions. You’ll survive.”

    raigo slide my gaze a enough.”

    ‘I ite.“

    “L’appetit vient en mangeant.”

    ‘Appetite comes by eating,“ I translated.

    ‘Exactly. Your appetite  you must meet it   it to come.“

    It urn to frown.

    ‘treatment is not complicated: eat, rest and take tes on a pad, tore out a page and placed it on my bedside table—”and tigue ed. ”I’d like to ask you about t I suspect you  like to tell me…“

    Stonily I regarded .”

    not.”

    From ted me and was gone.

    I reacion. In a vigorous scraen pages, till end of course.