"Matthews, Patricia - Goatman" - читать интересную книгу автора (Matthews Patricia)

He struck his forehead with the back of his hand. "A Chic Sale! Now I know
you're out of your mind!"

A stricken look flashed across his mobile face, and Moira went to him and took
his hand, exerting a gentle pressure. "Victor, it's all right. I can talk about
it now. I can talk about nervous breakdowns, mental illness." She smiled wryly.
"In fact, for nine months, it seems I've talked of little else."

And that's the truth, she thought. In her sessions with Dr. Speegler, she had
finally been able to bring it all out; all the bitterness, all the repressed
love and hidden hatred that she had felt for her husband, Jason. Dr. Speegler
had helped her see that her anger was a natural thing. She had felt betrayed,
which was only natural, since in the very act of marrying her, Jason had
betrayed her.

She had married Jason believing he was everything she had ever dreamed of;
handsome, clever, sure of himself. The fact that he attempted no physical
liberties with her before marriage, she put down to his self-control, his
concern for her inexperience. But, after the wedding . . . She drew a shuddering
breath. She could think of it now, even talk about it, but the thought still
brought pain. It all came down to one hurtful, unalterable fact; Jason was not
able to physically love a woman. That portion of his life was reserved for other
men.

No purpose would be served by going over it again; the recrimination, the
terrible, wounded silences, the soul and mind-ripping cry of, why? Why did you
marry me?

Dr. Speegler had helped her understand it, and deal with it, and now she needed
peace, peace and quiet, and isolation, so that she could learn to live with it.

She felt the touch of Victor's hand on her arm. "Moira, are you sure you'll be
all right alone? It's like the end of the Earth out here, and the cabin's
falling apart. Nobody has lived here since Aunt Ida died."

She smiled, and touched his face. "Dear Victor. Of course. I've always loved it
here, you know that. Besides, I have Tray for company."

Of course he had gone away still not understanding, for how could she have
explained the appeal that this primitive simplicity had for her. She knew that
in his own, rather unsteady way, her brother loved her and worried about her,
and she appreciated his caring, but she needed to, had to, be alone just now.

Supper over, and the dishes put away, she put more wood into the Franklin stove,
turned up the flame on the kerosene lamp, and settled, with a book, into the old
rocker. Tray lay at her feet, rump turned to the heat of the stove, drowsing.

The wind seemed stronger now that darkness had fallen, and Moira was conscious
of thumps and scratching sounds, as branches and twigs were blown against the