--I am
faithful, Lord.--
* * * * *
The tailor-shop is black. It has moved up three hours into midnight. It
is black.
Esther and Meyer walk the grey street. In the arms of the man sleeps
Flora. His arm aches. He dares not change her to his other arm. Lest she
wake.
He has undressed her. Gentle hands of a man. He holds her little body,
naked, near his eyes. Her face and her hands, her feet and her knees are
soiled. The rest of her body is white--very white--no bloom upon her
body. He kisses her black hair.
He lays her away beneath her coverlet.
There is his wife before him. She is straight. Her naked body rises,
column of white flame, from her dun skirt. Esther--his love--she is in a
case of fire. Within her breasts as within hard jewels move the liquids
of love. Within her body, as within a case, lies her soul, pent, which
should pour forth its warmth upon them.
He embraces her.
"Esther.--Esther--" He can say no more.
His lips are at her throat. Can he not break her open?
She sways back, yielding. Her eyes swerve up. They catch the cradle of
her child.
--Another child--another agony of glory--another misery to the world?
She is stiff in the unbroken case of a vast wound all about her.
So they lie down in bed.
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