She lay for a while appreciating the way the weak winter sun shone through the windows, filling this small room with a glazy light. Stretching, she looked at her wristwatch and was amazed to see that it was almost eleven o’clock. She glanced back over at John, alarmed—how could he still be sleeping so deeply?Sitting up in bed, she pondered what to do next. Should she leave him alone to sleep? He had finished so many canvases; it was possible that he had pushed himself to the point of exhaustion. It was possible that it was only that that had happened while she was gone. But she did not think so. Yet she had no proof, only her suspicions and the memory of his voice and face as he told her to go away.For a while, petulant, she decided she would damn well stay by his side for every minute of this day. But after she had settled back down into the bed, she grew restless. She never had been good at staying in bed all day. So she rose and showered and dressed, coming in now and then to check on John, who still slept.Several times she walked past her sewing room, but it did not lure her now.
