Now she was sick, seriously sick, but there was nothing to be done except wait it out.

Time leapt, pleated. Now sunshine dazed her and fell in lurid bright patches on the wall; now it was dusk; night; and someone was prowling about downstairs. She heard the clatter of horses’ hooves. In the front hall? In her house? But Sheila would not dare, even as a jest . . . !

She saw Peck sprawled on her sofa, frowning, watching Sheila Trask closely, jealously; she felt the agitated movements of his eyeballs, which were her own. On the way out he and Sheila had passed through Monica’s kitchen without noticing the stained glass lily balanced in one of the windows but Monica was not hurt, Monica did not care, she squirmed in dread only at the thought of how Peck passed judgment on her, what he said afterward of her if he said anything at all.

A disfiguring scar, sensitive to the touch as an open wound, repulsive to look upon. As if Monica’s legs were spread wide. As if the wound there were exposed. Good-bye! good-bye! Sheila cried in her great glaring joy, backing away. Good-bye!

Monica thought: I am to blame.

Monica thought: I am to blame so it is proper that I suffer, and soil the sheets.

She would be a stoic about this humiliating sickness (virulent intestinal flu, headache, fever, “unreality”) because she knew she would not die. One does not die for a trifle after all. One does not die simply because one deserves to die.

Falling asleep, falling sick. Falling.

Falling in love: falling.

Once or twice, making her way downstairs, Monica nearly fell because of weakness; because her heart pumped too little oxygen (or too much) to her brain. This too is falling, she thought. This too must be acknowledged.

She took hold of the backs of chairs, door frames, the kitchen counter, making her slow staggering way, not quite remembering where she was headed—the refrigerator?—food?—but dear God, the very thought of it!—she would vomit everything up in the kitchen sink, she wouldn’t even make it to the toilet.

Falling into bed, falling into sleep.

Falling.

She wondered mildly if she might fall too far—the notion of falling quite dazzled her—and never return.

Might one fall into the depths of one’s own body, retreating to a small snug well-lit place deep in the brain, huddled there, knotted up, perfectly at ease, paralyzed, if you will, but perfectly at ease?—a languorous deathly sleep, the most delicious of sleeps?

What must be avoided, Monica thought, opening her burning eyes as the telephone rang, is self-pity.