—Othello, II, iii, 31 January 2, 1890 “Julia, I shall count to ten. If you aren’t thoroughly awake by then, I am going to dash the contents of this pitcher into your face, and I warn you, I’ve only just cracked the ice on the surface of it.” My sister’s voice pierced the lovely morning hush of the bedchamber with all the delicacy of a gong. I reached out one finger to poke my husband’s naked shoulder. “Brisbane. Portia is here.” He heaved a sigh into the eiderdown. “You’re dreaming. Portia wouldn’t dare.” “Wouldn’t I?” she asked. “And, Julia, this is the first time I’ve seen your husband entirely unclothed. May I offer my congratulations?” With a violent oath, Brisbane flung himself under the bedclothes. “Modest as a virgin, I see,” Portia remarked. “Julia, I’m still counting. Silently. I’ve reached seven.
