unable to move； to think； to feel。 Finally
the chill in the air drove her under the quilt； but even then the
trembling hit her hard。 There was only one explanation for Mitch's
behavior； and it had to do with the 〃obligation〃 to which he had once
referred。 He wasn't free。
So again she wondered； Do I leave； or do I stay？ And again she reached
the same decision。 Self…destructive or not； she was staying。 She had to
be near Mitch。
But she wasn't being humiliated again。 She wasn't begging for love until
it was freely offered first。
Needing to make a statement to that effect； she slipped from bed； went
to the dresser； and pulled on a pair of corduroys and a turtleneck
sweater。 Then she went downstairs with her head held high。
But her show of confidence was wasted。 Mitch was nowhere in sight。 He
had eaten。 She saw dishes in the sink。 And the blue Honda was parked
outside。 Deflated； she guessed that he was out in the woods。
Resigned to spending the afternoon alone； Anne built a roaring fire and
settled before it。 She had a short essay to translate； and a new novel；
of the bestseller type； to read。 She set to it。
Late afternoon became early evening without a sign of Mitch。 More
restless than bored； more concerned than angry； she wandered into the
kitchen。 But she didn't have it in her to make dinner； so she returned
to the fireplace。
Not long after； the back door opened and shut。 Heavy boots crossed the
kitchen floor。 A slicker…clad figure appeared。
Without a word he approached； shucking the slicker along the way and
draping it over a chair。 Then he hunkered down near her and added
another log
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