For that reason Alice Prentice had always welcomed sleep, but she suffered an insomniac’s dread of the time just before sleeping, the act of falling asleep itself, the perilous twilight of semi-awareness when the mind must struggle for coherence, when a siren or a cry in the street is the very sound of terror and the ticking of the clock is a steady reminder of death. Now, with Bobby gone in the Army, she had found that whiskey was a great help. Under its protection she could allow her memory free rein: she could dwell without chagrin on the tenderest, most painful times in her life and draw comfort from the belief that nothing was ever as bad as it seemed – that everything, somehow, worked out for the best. She could even remember Bethel, Connecticut – the long, bleak time after coming home from Paris, when it seemed every day and every night that she couldn’t possibly be more lonely. Her fine old colonial house was a pleasure – at least it would have been a pleasure if she’d had a man to share it with – and she had made a studio out of the old barn behind it, where she was managing to get a good deal of work done.
