167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. She is in the hall now. Kneebone. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. "If you two loved each other," went on the doctor, "there would be something to stand on—a reason why for this madness. "And now, widow," continued the ruffian, setting down the candle, and applying his lips to the bottle neck as he flung his heavy frame upon a bench, "I've a piece o' good news for you. Most of the vessels lying in the river were driven from their moorings, dashed tumultuously against each other, or blown ashore. She could not stir hand or foot. She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously. I don’t care what divides us. Each arm of the blouse had the faintest of rings around the elbow, a stain that looked familiar. She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands. ‘In love? I? Don’t be ridiculous. Much too young for you.
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