"Well--if I don't get down to the boat I'll send somebody." She held out her hand. He stood up. Being so big, he looked more helpless behind his shade. He took her hand and held it in both his. "God bless you, Miss Alice." She could not speak. He saw that she was disturbed. He was kind, a big stout man, smiling. Her throat closed. "Take a real rest," she ordered in a short, thick, over-casual voice. Their hands dropped apart. "I'll probably be forced to in spite of myself." "Well, I'm glad of it." She turned quickly and went toward the door. He followed her and stumbled a little. She tried not to look back at him. "This has been awfully good of you," he said after her in his slow, kind way. She could not bear his slow kindness. She did not answer. "Can't I get a taxicab for you?" "Couldn't. Feel uncomfortable with such luxuries. You go to bed and rest." She glanced back once. He stood, huge in his fatigue, with his drooped, gentle mouth, in an attitude as if he did not know what to do with his hands. "Good-bye." She bit her lips. "Good-bye." The door closed. She was in the corridor stupid with light. On the stairs she met the hallboy, who stood aside. He had a vacant gaze as if the empty brilliance of the hall had dizzied him. When she passed into the still street she felt as though she slipped into an inner darkness. She was two and the self that suffered, heavy and dark, sank through an oblivious other and out of knowledge. I cannot bear it! She went through the park. There were people on the benches in the darkness. She walked quickly past them into the bare-swept circles under the lamps. What shall I do? Lies. I think I'm going mad. She went on. Her heels clicked on the deserted street. Against the window of a house she passed a lamp with a red shade glowed softly. The new moon over the trees was like a fragment of ice. What does it come to? Sheep. Wag. Wag tail. Mistress Mary. Far away over the hills. The street. Dark over the hills. Dark. Darkness is one. There are no eyes in the dark. Horace. Walking, she pressed her knuckles against her lips and dug her teeth into the flesh. Sweet to feel. Softly her agony flowed through the wound of her teeth. When she reached home she passed quickly through the dimly lit hallway and so up the long stairs, escaping notice. The hinges creaked as she opened the door of her dark room. She went in quickly and closed it and rested against the lintel, panting, her head thrown back. Her mind was fire and ice. She must kill this agony. A little light floated in from the street through the open window. She could see her bureau with its white cover and the sparkle of toilet instruments on it. She went there and picked up a pair of scissors, plunging the points twice into her flesh with quick stabs. Feeling numbness and relief, she stood stupidly watching the blood, dark and colorless, gather on her forearm. Mary had a little lamb. I'm mad. Washed in the blood of the lamb.