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.