She had the option of lying down and floating quietly into the day, all peril past.

It seemed sweet for a minute.

But it soon seemed an old, a worn, an end-of-autumn life, chill, without aim, like a something that was hungry and toothless.

The bed proposing innocent sleep repelled her and drove her to the clock.

The clock was awful: the hand at the hour, the finger following the minute, commanded her to stir actively, and drove her to gentle meditations on the bed.