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He
smiled
again
with
that
insolently
personal
quality
which
now
seemed
to
say
that
he
knew
the
threat
contained
in
his
answer
and
what
it
meant
to
her
,
then
he
rose
from
the
table
.
When
he
had
gone
,
she
felt
as
if
the
motion
of
time
were
an
oppressive
weight
in
the
stillness
of
the
house
,
like
a
stationary
,
half
-
solid
mass
slithering
slowly
into
some
faint
elongation
by
a
tempo
that
left
her
no
measure
to
know
whether
minutes
had
passed
or
hours
.
She
lay
half
-
stretched
in
an
armchair
of
the
living
room
,
crumpled
by
that
heavy
,
indifferent
lassitude
which
is
not
the
will
to
laziness
,
but
the
frustration
of
the
will
to
a
secret
violence
that
no
lesser
action
can
satisfy
.
That
special
pleasure
she
had
felt
in
watching
him
eat
the
food
she
had
prepared
—
she
thought
,
lying
still
,
her
eyes
closed
,
her
mind
moving
,
like
time
,
through
some
realm
of
veiled
slowness
—
it
had
been
the
pleasure
of
knowing
that
she
had
provided
him
with
a
sensual
enjoyment
,
that
one
form
of
his
body
’
s
satisfaction
had
come
from
her
.
.
.
.
There
is
reason
,
she
thought
,
why
a
woman
would
wish
to
cook
for
a
man
.
.
.
oh
,
not
as
a
duty
,
not
as
a
chronic
career
,
only
as
a
rare
and
special
rite
in
symbol
of
.
.
.
but
what
have
they
made
of
it
,
the
preachers
of
woman
’
s
duty
?
.
.
.
The
castrated
performance
of
a
sickening
drudgery
was
held
to
be
a
woman
’
s
proper
virtue
—
while
that
which
gave
it
meaning
and
sanction
was
held
as
a
shameful
sin
.
.
.
the
work
of
dealing
with
grease
,
steam
and
slimy
peelings
in
a
reeking
kitchen
was
held
to
be
a
spiritual
matter
,
an
act
of
compliance
with
her
moral
duty
—
while
the
meeting
of
two
bodies
in
a
bedroom
was
held
to
be
a
physical
indulgence
,
an
act
of
surrender
to
an
animal
instinct
,
with
no
glory
,
meaning
or
pride
of
spirit
to
be
claimed
by
the
animals
involved
.
She
leaped
abruptly
to
her
feet
.
She
did
not
want
to
think
of
the
outer
world
or
of
its
moral
code
.
But
she
knew
that
that
was
not
the
subject
of
her
thoughts
.
And
she
did
not
want
to
think
of
the
subject
her
mind
was
intent
on
pursuing
,
the
subject
to
which
it
kept
returning
against
her
will
,
by
some
will
of
its
own
.
.
.
She
paced
the
room
,
hating
the
ugly
,
jerky
,
uncontrolled
looseness
of
her
movements
—
torn
between
the
need
to
let
her
motion
break
the
stillness
,
and
the
knowledge
that
this
was
not
the
form
of
break
she
wanted
.
She
lighted
cigarettes
,
for
an
instant
’
s
illusion
of
purposeful
action
—
and
discarded
them
within
another
instant
,
feeling
the
weary
distaste
of
a
substitute
purpose
.
She
looked
at
the
room
like
a
restless
beggar
,
pleading
with
physical
objects
to
give
her
a
motive
,
wishing
she
could
find
something
to
clean
,
to
mend
,
to
polish
—
while
knowing
that
no
task
was
worth
the
effort
.
When
nothing
seems
worth
the
effort
—
said
some
stern
voice
in
her
mind
—
it
’
s
a
screen
to
hide
a
wish
that
’
s
worth
too
much
;
what
do
you
want
?
.
.
.
She
snapped
a
match
,
viciously
jerking
the
flame
to
the
tip
of
a
cigarette
she
noticed
hanging
,
unlighted
,
in
the
corner
of
her
mouth
.
.
.
What
do
you
want
?
—
repeated
the
voice
that
sounded
severe
as
a
judge
.
I
want
him
to
come
back
!
—
she
answered
,
throwing
the
words
,
as
a
soundless
cry
,
at
some
accuser
within
her
,
almost
as
one
would
throw
a
bone
to
a
pursuing
beast
,
in
the
hope
of
distracting
it
from
pouncing
upon
the
rest
.
I
want
him
back
—
she
said
softly
,
in
answer
to
the
accusation
that
there
was
no
reason
for
so
great
an
impatience
.
.
.
I
want
him
back
—
she
said
pleadingly
,
in
answer
to
the
cold
reminder
that
her
answer
did
not
balance
the
judge
’
s
scale
.
.
.
I
want
him
back
!
—
she
cried
defiantly
,
fighting
not
to
drop
the
one
superfluous
,
protective
word
in
that
sentence
.
She
felt
her
head
drooping
with
exhaustion
,
as
after
a
prolonged
beating
.
The
cigarette
she
saw
between
her
fingers
had
burned
the
mere
length
of
half
an
inch
.
She
ground
it
out
and
fell
into
the
armchair
again
.
