the vanity, the pain, the longing sink deep and vanish—all of it, all of it! And let me rest in the midst of the Gray Dawn."
I heard music—the silent music of myriad voices that you hear when all is still. One of them came and whispered to me softly: "Don't suffer any more just now, little Mary MacLane. You suffer enough in the brightness of the sun and the blackness of the night. This is the Gray Dawn. Take a little rest."
"Yes," I said, "I will take a little rest."
And then a wild, swelling chorus of voices whispered in the stillness: "Rest, rest, rest, little Mary MacLane. Suffer in the brightness, suffer in the blackness—your soul, your wooden heart, your woman's-body. But now a little rest—a little rest."
"A little rest," I said again.
And straightway I began resting lest the sun should come too quickly over the edge.
