of her brow. I did it, thinking only of the ink, and her white skin; but she felt my hand and grew very still. My thumb moved slower. It moved to her cheek. Then I found I had cupped her face in my hand. She closed her eyes. Her cheek was smooth—not like a pearl, warmer than pearls. She turned her head and put her mouth against my palm. Her lips were soft. The smudge stayed black upon her brow; and after all, I thought, was only ink.
When I kissed her, she shook. I remembered what it was, then, to make her shake by kissing her; and began to shake, too. I had been ill. I thought I might faint! We moved apart. She put her hand against her heart. She had still held the paper. Now it fluttered to the floor. I stooped and caught it up and smoothed the creases from it.
''What does it say?'' I said, when I had.
She said, ''It is filled with all the words for how I want you . . . Look.''
She took up the lamp. The room had got darker, the rain still beat against the glass. But she led me to the fire and made me sit, and sat beside me. Her silk skirts rose in a rush, then sank. She put the lamp upon the floor, spread the paper flat; and began to show me the words she had written, one by one.
Notes
Many books provided historical detail and inspiration. I''m particularly indebted to V.A.C. Gatrell''s The Hanging Tree: Execution and the English People, 1770-1868 (Oxford, 1994) and Marcia Hamilcar''s Legally Dead: Experiences During Seven Weeks'' Detention in a Private Asylum (London, 1910).※思※兔※在※線※閱※讀※