"That you, Sally?"
"Yes."
"What is it? Come in. I'm in bed. Believe I was asleep. What is it?
Come in."
She opened the door gently. He sat up in bed, found matches, struck
one and lit a candle.
"Lord!" he exclaimed, "you'll catch your death of cold. What do you
want, child?"
"I can't get to sleep," she murmured, blinking her eyes at the sudden
glare of the candle.
"Why not?"
He sat there, looking at her, his eyes dazed, half awake.
"I don't know."
"Thinking too much?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Well, count sheep going through a gate. A hundred's the prescribed
amount."
She tried to smile because she knew that if she did not, he would
think she was unhappy or depressed.
"No, I want you to let me have a book," she said; "I think perhaps
if I read--"
"Of course, take anything you like, and try smoking a cigarette. That
may make you drowsy."
He lay back on the pillows. For a moment, she stood, undecided as
to what to do; then she went into the other room, taking up the first
book that her hands touched in the darkness. There, again, she waited
in silence. At last she undid the fastenings that held her
dressing-gown tight about her and came back again into the room.
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