It was a long ache that made him feverish.

Then, when he got home in the early evening, he glanced through the kitchen window.
She was not there; she had not got up.
He ran straight upstairs and kissed her.

He was almost afraid to ask: "Didn't you get up, pigeon ?" "No," she said, "it was that morphia; it made me tired." "I think he gives you too much," he said.
"I think he does," she answered.
He sat down by the bed, miserably.

She had a way of curling and lying on her side, like a child.

The grey and brown hair was loose over her ear.
"Doesn't it tickle you ?" he said, gently putting it back.
"It does," she replied.
His face was near hers.