There was the bed, there was the clock. She had the option of lying down
and floating quietly into the day, all peril past. It seemed sweet for a
minute. But it soon seemed an old, a worn, an end-of-autumn life, chill,
without aim, like a something that was hungry and toothless. The bed
proposing innocent sleep repelled her and drove her to the clock. The
clock was awful: the hand at the hour, the finger following the minute,
commanded her to stir actively, and drove her to gentle meditations on
the bed. She lay down dressed, after setting her light beside the clock,
that she might see it at will, and considering it necessary for the bed
to appear to have been lain on. Considering also that she ought to be
heard moving about in the process of undressing, she rose from the bed to
make sure of her reading of the guilty clock. An hour and twenty minutes!
she had no more time than that: and it was not enough for her various
preparations, though it was true that her maid had packed and taken a box
of the things chiefly needful; but the duchess had to change her shoes
and her dress, and run at bo-peep with the changes of her mind, a
sedative preface to any fatal step among women of her complexion, for so
they invite indecision to exhaust their scruples, and they let the blood
have its way.
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