["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> The street-lamps were lit, but the rain had ceased, and there was a\nmomentary revival of light in the upper sky. Lily walked on unconscious\nof her surroundings. She was still treading the buoyant ether which\nemanates from the high moments of life. But gradually it shrank away from\nher and she felt the dull pavement beneath her feet. The sense of\nweariness returned with accumulated force, and for a moment she felt that\nshe could walk no farther. She had reached the corner of Forty-first\nStreet and Fifth Avenue, and she remembered that in Bryant Park there\nwere seats where she might rest. That melancholy pleasure-ground was almost deserted when she entered it,\nand she sank down on an empty bench in the glare of an electric\nstreet-lamp. The warmth of the fire had passed out of her veins, and she\ntold herself that she must not sit long in the penetrating dampness which\nstruck up from the wet asphalt. But her will-power seemed to have spent\nitself in a last great effort, and she was lost in the blank reaction\nwhich follows on an unwonted expenditure of energy. And besides, what was\nthere to go home to? Nothing but the silence of her cheerless room--that\nsilence of the night which may be more racking to tired nerves than the\nmost discordant noises: that, and the bottle of chloral by her bed. The\nthought of the chloral was the only spot of light in the dark prospect:\nshe could feel its lulling influence stealing over her already. But she\nwas troubled by the thought that it was losing its power--she dared not\ngo back to it too soon. Of late the sleep it had brought her had been\nmore broken and less profound; there had been nights when she was\nperpetually floating up through it to consciousness. What if the effect\nof the drug should gradually fail, as all narcotics were said to fail? She remembered the chemist's warning against increasing the dose; and she\nhad heard before of the capricious and incalculable action of the drug. Her dread of returning to a sleepless night was so great that she\nlingered on, hoping that excessive weariness would reinforce the waning\npower of the chloral. Night had now closed in, and the roar of traffic in Forty-second Street\nwas dying out. As complete darkness fell on the square the lingering\noccupants of the benches rose and dispersed; but now and then a stray\nfigure, hurrying homeward, struck across the path where Lily sat, looming\nblack for a moment in the white circle of electric light. One or two of\nthese passers-by slackened their pace to glance curiously at her lonely\nfigure; but she was hardly conscious of their scrutiny. Suddenly, however, she became aware that one of the passing shadows\nremained stationary between her line of vision and the gleaming asphalt;\nand raising her eyes she saw a young woman bending over her. \"Excuse me--are you sick?--Why, it's Miss Bart!\" a half-familiar voice\nexclaimed. Lily looked up. The speaker was a poorly-dressed young woman with a\nbundle under her arm. Her face had the air of unwholesome refinement\nwhich ill-health and over-work may produce, but its common prettiness was\nredeemed by the strong and generous curve of the lips. \"You don't remember me,\" she continued, brightening with the pleasure of\nrecognition, \"but I'd know you anywhere, I've thought of you such a lot. I guess my folks all know your name by heart. I was one of the girls at\nMiss Farish's club--you helped me to go to the country that time I had\nlung-trouble. My name's Nettie Struther. It was Nettie Crane then--but I\ndaresay you don't remember that either.\" Yes: Lily was beginning to remember. The episode of Nettie Crane's timely\nrescue from disease had been one of the most satisfying incidents of her\nconnection with Gerty's charitable work. She had furnished the girl with\nthe means to go to a sanatorium in the mountains: it struck her now with\na peculiar irony that the money she had used had been Gus Trenor's. She tried to reply, to assure the speaker that she had not forgotten; but\nher voice failed in the effort, and she felt herself sinking under a\ngreat wave of physical weakness. Nettie Struther, with a startled\nexclamation, sat down and slipped a shabbily-clad arm behind her back. \"Why, Miss Bart, you ARE sick. Just lean on me a little till you feel\nbetter.\" A faint glow of returning strength seemed to pass into Lily from the\npressure of the supporting arm. \"I'm only tired--it is nothing,\" she found voice to say in a moment; and\nthen, as she met the timid appeal of her companion's eyes, she added\ninvoluntarily: \"I have been unhappy--in great trouble.\" \"YOU in trouble? I've always thought of you as being so high up, where\neverything was just grand. Sometimes, when I felt real mean, and got to\nwondering why things were so queerly fixed in the world, I used to\nremember that you were having a lovely time, anyhow, and that seemed to\nshow there was a kind of justice somewhere. But you mustn't sit here too\nlong--it's fearfully damp. Don't you feel strong enough to walk on a\nlittle ways now?\" she broke off. \"Yes--yes; I must go home,\" Lily murmured, rising. Her eyes rested wonderingly on the thin shabby figure at her side. She\nhad known Nettie Crane as one of the discouraged victims of over-work and\nanaemic parentage: one of the superfluous fragments of life destined to\nbe swept prematurely into that social refuse-heap of which Lily had so\nlately expressed her dread. But Nettie Struther's frail envelope was now\nalive with hope and energy: whatever fate the future reserved for her,\nshe would not be cast into the refuse-heap without a struggle. \"I am very glad to have seen you,\" Lily continued, summoning a smile to\nher unsteady lips. \"It'll be my turn to think of you as happy--and the\nworld will seem a less unjust place to me too.\" \"Oh, but I can't leave you like this--you're not fit to go home alone. And I can't go with you either!\" Nettie Struther wailed with a start of\nrecollection. \"You see, it's my husband's night-shift--he's a\nmotor-man--and the friend I leave the baby with has to step upstairs to\nget HER husband's supper at seven. I didn't tell you I had a baby, did I? She'll be four months old day after tomorrow, and to look at her you\nwouldn't think I'd ever had a sick day. I'd give anything to show you the\nbaby, Miss Bart, and we live right down the street here--it's only three\nblocks off.\" She lifted her eyes tentatively to Lily's face, and then\nadded with a burst of courage: \"Why won't you get right into the cars and\ncome home with me while I get baby's supper? It's real warm in our\nkitchen, and you can rest there, and I'll take YOU home as soon as ever\nshe drops off to sleep.\" It WAS warm in the kitchen, which, when Nettie Struther's match had made\na flame leap from the gas-jet above the table, revealed itself to Lily as\nextraordinarily small and almost miraculously clean. A fire shone through\nthe polished flanks of the iron stove, and near it stood a crib in which\na baby was sitting upright, with incipient anxiety struggling for\nexpression on a countenance still placid with sleep. Having passionately celebrated her reunion with her offspring, and\nexcused herself in cryptic language for the lateness of her return,\nNettie restored the baby to the crib and shyly invited Miss Bart to the\nrocking-chair near the stove. \"We've got a parlour too,\" she explained with pardonable pride; \"but I\nguess it's warmer in here, and I don't want to leave you alone while I'm\ngetting baby's supper.\" On receiving Lily's assurance that she much preferred the friendly\nproximity of the kitchen fire, Mrs. Struther proceeded to prepare a\nbottle of infantile food, which she tenderly applied to the baby's\nimpatient lips; and while the ensuing degustation went on, she seated\nherself with a beaming countenance beside her visitor. \"You're sure you won't let me warm up a drop of coffee for you, Miss\nBart? There's some of baby's fresh milk left over--well, maybe you'd\nrather just sit quiet and rest a little while. It's too lovely having you\nhere. I've thought of it so often that I can't believe it's really come\ntrue. I've said to George again and again: 'I just wish Miss Bart could\nsee me NOW--' and I used to watch for your name in the papers, and we'd\ntalk over what you were doing, and read the descriptions of the dresses\nyou wore.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-04 The user is reading a book]\n<User> I haven't seen your name for a long time, though, and I began\nto be afraid you were sick, and it worried me so that George said I'd get\nsick myself, fretting about it.\" Her lips broke into a reminiscent smile. \"Well, I can't afford to be sick again, that's a fact: the last spell\nnearly finished me. When you sent me off that time I never thought I'd\ncome back alive, and I didn't much care if I did. You see I didn't know\nabout George and the baby then.\" She paused to readjust the bottle to the child's bubbling mouth. \"You precious--don't you be in too much of a hurry! Was it mad with\nmommer for getting its supper so late? Marry Anto'nette--that's what we\ncall her: after the French queen in that play at the Garden--I told\nGeorge the actress reminded me of you, and that made me fancy the\nname . . . I never thought I'd get married, you know, and I'd never have\nhad the heart to go on working just for myself.\" She broke off again, and meeting the encouragement in Lily's eyes, went\non, with a flush rising under her anaemic skin: \"You see I wasn't only\njust SICK that time you sent me off--I was dreadfully unhappy too. I'd\nknown a gentleman where I was employed--I don't know as you remember I\ndid type-writing in a big importing firm--and--well--I thought we were to\nbe married: he'd gone steady with me six months and given me his mother's\nwedding ring. But I presume he was too stylish for me--he travelled for\nthe firm, and had seen a great deal of society. Work girls aren't looked\nafter the way you are, and they don't always know how to look after\nthemselves. I didn't . . . and it pretty near killed me when he went away\nand left off writing . . . \"It was then I came down sick--I thought it was the end of everything. I\nguess it would have been if you hadn't sent me off. But when I found I\nwas getting well I began to take heart in spite of myself. And then,\nwhen I got back home, George came round and asked me to marry him. At\nfirst I thought I couldn't, because we'd been brought up together, and I\nknew he knew about me. But after a while I began to see that that made it\neasier. I never could have told another man, and I'd never have married\nwithout telling; but if George cared for me enough to have me as I was, I\ndidn't see why I shouldn't begin over again--and I did.\" The strength of the victory shone forth from her as she lifted her\nirradiated face from the child on her knees. \"But, mercy, I didn't mean\nto go on like this about myself, with you sitting there looking so fagged\nout. Only it's so lovely having you here, and letting you see just how\nyou've helped me.\" The baby had sunk back blissfully replete, and Mrs.\nStruther softly rose to lay the bottle aside. Then she paused before Miss\nBart. \"I only wish I could help YOU--but I suppose there's nothing on earth I\ncould do,\" she murmured wistfully. Lily, instead of answering, rose with a smile and held out her arms; and\nthe mother, understanding the gesture, laid her child in them. The baby, feeling herself detached from her habitual anchorage, made an\ninstinctive motion of resistance; but the soothing influences of\ndigestion prevailed, and Lily felt the soft weight sink trustfully\nagainst her breast. The child's confidence in its safety thrilled her\nwith a sense of warmth and returning life, and she bent over, wondering\nat the rosy blur of the little face, the empty clearness of the eyes, the\nvague tendrilly motions of the folding and unfolding fingers. At first\nthe burden in her arms seemed as light as a pink cloud or a heap of down,\nbut as she continued to hold it the weight increased, sinking deeper, and\npenetrating her with a strange sense of weakness, as though the child\nentered into her and became a part of herself. She looked up, and saw Nettie's eyes resting on her with tenderness and\nexultation. \"Wouldn't it be too lovely for anything if she could grow up to be just\nlike you? Of course I know she never COULD--but mothers are always\ndreaming the craziest things for their children.\" Lily clasped the child close for a moment and laid her back in her\nmother's arms. \"Oh, she must not do that--I should be afraid to come and see her too\noften!\" she said with a smile; and then, resisting Mrs. Struther's\nanxious offer of companionship, and reiterating the promise that of\ncourse she would come back soon, and make George's acquaintance, and see\nthe baby in her bath, she passed out of the kitchen and went alone down\nthe tenement stairs. As she reached the street she realized that she felt stronger and\nhappier: the little episode had done her good. It was the first time she\nhad ever come across the results of her spasmodic benevolence, and the\nsurprised sense of human fellowship took the mortal chill from her heart. It was not till she entered her own door that she felt the reaction of a\ndeeper loneliness. It was long after seven o'clock, and the light and\nodours proceeding from the basement made it manifest that the\nboarding-house dinner had begun. She hastened up to her room, lit the\ngas, and began to dress. She did not mean to pamper herself any longer,\nto go without food because her surroundings made it unpalatable. Since it\nwas her fate to live in a boarding-house, she must learn to fall in with\nthe conditions of the life. Nevertheless she was glad that, when she\ndescended to the heat and glare of the dining-room, the repast was nearly\nover. In her own room again, she was seized with a sudden fever of activity. For weeks past she had been too listless and indifferent to set her\npossessions in order, but now she began to examine systematically the\ncontents of her drawers and cupboard. She had a few handsome dresses\nleft--survivals of her last phase of splendour, on the Sabrina and in\nLondon--but when she had been obliged to part with her maid she had given\nthe woman a generous share of her cast-off apparel. The remaining\ndresses, though they had lost their freshness, still kept the long\nunerring lines, the sweep and amplitude of the great artist's stroke, and\nas she spread them out on the bed the scenes in which they had been worn\nrose vividly before her. An association lurked in every fold: each fall\nof lace and gleam of embroidery was like a letter in the record of her\npast. She was startled to find how the atmosphere of her old life\nenveloped her. But, after all, it was the life she had been made for:\nevery dawning tendency in her had been carefully directed toward it, all\nher interests and activities had been taught to centre around it. She\nwas like some rare flower grown for exhibition, a flower from which every\nbud had been nipped except the crowning blossom of her beauty. Last of all, she drew forth from the bottom of her trunk a heap of white\ndrapery which fell shapelessly across her arm. It was the Reynolds dress\nshe had worn in the Bry TABLEAUX. It had been impossible for her to give\nit away, but she had never seen it since that night, and the long\nflexible folds, as she shook them out, gave forth an odour of violets\nwhich came to her like a breath from the flower-edged fountain where she\nhad stood with Lawrence Selden and disowned her fate. She put back the\ndresses one by one, laying away with each some gleam of light, some note\nof laughter, some stray waft from the rosy shores of pleasure. She was\nstill in a state of highly-wrought impressionability, and every hint of\nthe past sent a lingering tremor along her nerves. She had just closed her trunk on the white folds of the Reynolds dress\nwhen she heard a tap at her door, and the red fist of the Irish\nmaid-servant thrust in a belated letter. Carrying it to the light, Lily\nread with surprise the address stamped on the upper corner of the\nenvelope. It was a business communication from the office of her aunt's\nexecutors, and she wondered what unexpected development had caused them\nto break silence before the appointed time. She opened the envelope and a\ncheque fluttered to the floor. As she stooped to pick it up the blood\nrushed to her face. The cheque represented the full amount of Mrs.\nPeniston's legacy, and the letter accompanying it explained that the\nexecutors, having adjusted the business of the estate with less delay\nthan they had expected, had decided to anticipate the date fixed for the\npayment of the bequests.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-04, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-07 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Lily sat down beside the desk at the foot of her bed, and spreading out\nthe cheque, read over and over the TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS written across it\nin a steely business hand. Ten months earlier the amount it stood for had\nrepresented the depths of penury; but her standard of values had changed\nin the interval, and now visions of wealth lurked in every flourish of\nthe pen. As she continued to gaze at it, she felt the glitter of the\nvisions mounting to her brain, and after a while she lifted the lid of\nthe desk and slipped the magic formula out of sight. It was easier to\nthink without those five figures dancing before her eyes; and she had a\ngreat deal of thinking to do before she slept. She opened her cheque-book, and plunged into such anxious calculations as\nhad prolonged her vigil at Bellomont on the night when she had decided to\nmarry Percy Gryce. Poverty simplifies book-keeping, and her financial\nsituation was easier to ascertain than it had been then; but she had not\nyet learned the control of money, and during her transient phase of\nluxury at the Emporium she had slipped back into habits of extravagance\nwhich still impaired her slender balance. A careful examination of her\ncheque-book, and of the unpaid bills in her desk, showed that, when the\nlatter had been settled, she would have barely enough to live on for the\nnext three or four months; and even after that, if she were to continue\nher present way of living, without earning any additional money, all\nincidental expenses must be reduced to the vanishing point. She hid her\neyes with a shudder, beholding herself at the entrance of that\never-narrowing perspective down which she had seen Miss Silverton's dowdy\nfigure take its despondent way. It was no longer, however, from the vision of material poverty that she\nturned with the greatest shrinking. She had a sense of deeper\nempoverishment--of an inner destitution compared to which outward\nconditions dwindled into insignificance. It was indeed miserable to be\npoor--to look forward to a shabby, anxious middle-age, leading by dreary\ndegrees of economy and self-denial to gradual absorption in the dingy\ncommunal existence of the boarding-house. But there was something more\nmiserable still--it was the clutch of solitude at her heart, the sense of\nbeing swept like a stray uprooted growth down the heedless current of the\nyears. That was the feeling which possessed her now--the feeling of being\nsomething rootless and ephemeral, mere spin-drift of the whirling surface\nof existence, without anything to which the poor little tentacles of self\ncould cling before the awful flood submerged them. And as she looked back\nshe saw that there had never been a time when she had had any real\nrelation to life. Her parents too had been rootless, blown hither and\nthither on every wind of fashion, without any personal existence to\nshelter them from its shifting gusts. She herself had grown up without\nany one spot of earth being dearer to her than another: there was no\ncentre of early pieties, of grave endearing traditions, to which her\nheart could revert and from which it could draw strength for itself and\ntenderness for others. In whatever form a slowly-accumulated past lives\nin the blood--whether in the concrete image of the old house stored with\nvisual memories, or in the conception of the house not built with hands,\nbut made up of inherited passions and loyalties--it has the same power of\nbroadening and deepening the individual existence, of attaching it by\nmysterious links of kinship to all the mighty sum of human striving. Such a vision of the solidarity of life had never before come to Lily. She had had a premonition of it in the blind motions of her\nmating-instinct; but they had been checked by the disintegrating\ninfluences of the life about her. All the men and women she knew were\nlike atoms whirling away from each other in some wild centrifugal dance:\nher first glimpse of the continuity of life had come to her that evening\nin Nettie Struther's kitchen. The poor little working-girl who had found strength to gather up the\nfragments of her life, and build herself a shelter with them, seemed to\nLily to have reached the central truth of existence. It was a meagre\nenough life, on the grim edge of poverty, with scant margin for\npossibilities of sickness or mischance, but it had the frail audacious\npermanence of a bird's nest built on the edge of a cliff--a mere wisp of\nleaves and straw, yet so put together that the lives entrusted to it may\nhang safely over the abyss. Yes--but it had taken two to build the nest; the man's faith as well as\nthe woman's courage. Lily remembered Nettie's words: I KNEW HE KNEW ABOUT\nME. Her husband's faith in her had made her renewal possible--it is so\neasy for a woman to become what the man she loves believes her to be! Well--Selden had twice been ready to stake his faith on Lily Bart; but\nthe third trial had been too severe for his endurance. The very quality\nof his love had made it the more impossible to recall to life. If it had\nbeen a simple instinct of the blood, the power of her beauty might have\nrevived it. But the fact that it struck deeper, that it was inextricably\nwound up with inherited habits of thought and feeling, made it as\nimpossible to restore to growth as a deep-rooted plant torn from its bed. Selden had given her of his best; but he was as incapable as herself of\nan uncritical return to former states of feeling. There remained to her, as she had told him, the uplifting memory of his\nfaith in her; but she had not reached the age when a woman can live on\nher memories. As she held Nettie Struther's child in her arms the frozen\ncurrents of youth had loosed themselves and run warm in her veins: the\nold life-hunger possessed her, and all her being clamoured for its share\nof personal happiness. Yes--it was happiness she still wanted, and the\nglimpse she had caught of it made everything else of no account. One by\none she had detached herself from the baser possibilities, and she saw\nthat nothing now remained to her but the emptiness of renunciation. It was growing late, and an immense weariness once more possessed her. It was not the stealing sense of sleep, but a vivid wakeful fatigue, a\nwan lucidity of mind against which all the possibilities of the future\nwere shadowed forth gigantically. She was appalled by the intense\ncleanness of the vision; she seemed to have broken through the merciful\nveil which intervenes between intention and action, and to see exactly\nwhat she would do in all the long days to come. There was the cheque in\nher desk, for instance--she meant to use it in paying her debt to Trenor;\nbut she foresaw that when the morning came she would put off doing so,\nwould slip into gradual tolerance of the debt. The thought terrified\nher--she dreaded to fall from the height of her last moment with Lawrence\nSelden. But how could she trust herself to keep her footing? She knew the\nstrength of the opposing impulses-she could feel the countless hands of\nhabit dragging her back into some fresh compromise with fate. She felt an\nintense longing to prolong, to perpetuate, the momentary exaltation of\nher spirit. If only life could end now--end on this tragic yet sweet\nvision of lost possibilities, which gave her a sense of kinship with all\nthe loving and foregoing in the world! She reached out suddenly and, drawing the cheque from her writing-desk,\nenclosed it in an envelope which she addressed to her bank. She then\nwrote out a cheque for Trenor, and placing it, without an accompanying\nword, in an envelope inscribed with his name, laid the two letters side\nby side on her desk. After that she continued to sit at the table,\nsorting her papers and writing, till the intense silence of the house\nreminded her of the lateness of the hour. In the street the noise of\nwheels had ceased, and the rumble of the \"elevated\" came only at long\nintervals through the deep unnatural hush. In the mysterious nocturnal\nseparation from all outward signs of life, she felt herself more\nstrangely confronted with her fate. The sensation made her brain reel,\nand she tried to shut out consciousness by pressing her hands against her\neyes. But the terrible silence and emptiness seemed to symbolize her\nfuture--she felt as though the house, the street, the world were all\nempty, and she alone left sentient in a lifeless universe. But this was the verge of delirium . . . she had never hung so near the\ndizzy brink of the unreal. Sleep was what she wanted--she remembered that\nshe had not closed her eyes for two nights. The little bottle was at her\nbed-side, waiting to lay its spell upon her.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-07, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-10 The user is reading a book]\n<User> She rose and undressed\nhastily, hungering now for the touch of her pillow. She felt so\nprofoundly tired that she thought she must fall asleep at once; but as\nsoon as she had lain down every nerve started once more into separate\nwakefulness. It was as though a great blaze of electric light had been\nturned on in her head, and her poor little anguished self shrank and\ncowered in it, without knowing where to take refuge. She had not imagined that such a multiplication of wakefulness was\npossible: her whole past was reenacting itself at a hundred different\npoints of consciousness. Where was the drug that could still this legion\nof insurgent nerves? The sense of exhaustion would have been sweet\ncompared to this shrill beat of activities; but weariness had dropped\nfrom her as though some cruel stimulant had been forced into her veins. She could bear it--yes, she could bear it; but what strength would be\nleft her the next day? Perspective had disappeared--the next day pressed\nclose upon her, and on its heels came the days that were to follow--they\nswarmed about her like a shrieking mob. She must shut them out for a few\nhours; she must take a brief bath of oblivion. She put out her hand, and\nmeasured the soothing drops into a glass; but as she did so, she knew\nthey would be powerless against the supernatural lucidity of her brain. She had long since raised the dose to its highest limit, but tonight she\nfelt she must increase it. She knew she took a slight risk in doing\nso--she remembered the chemist's warning. If sleep came at all, it might\nbe a sleep without waking. But after all that was but one chance in a\nhundred: the action of the drug was incalculable, and the addition of a\nfew drops to the regular dose would probably do no more than procure for\nher the rest she so desperately needed....\n\nShe did not, in truth, consider the question very closely--the physical\ncraving for sleep was her only sustained sensation. Her mind shrank from\nthe glare of thought as instinctively as eyes contract in a blaze of\nlight--darkness, darkness was what she must have at any cost. She raised\nherself in bed and swallowed the contents of the glass; then she blew out\nher candle and lay down. She lay very still, waiting with a sensuous pleasure for the first\neffects of the soporific. She knew in advance what form they would\ntake--the gradual cessation of the inner throb, the soft approach of\npassiveness, as though an invisible hand made magic passes over her in\nthe darkness. The very slowness and hesitancy of the effect increased its\nfascination: it was delicious to lean over and look down into the dim\nabysses of unconsciousness. Tonight the drug seemed to work more slowly\nthan usual: each passionate pulse had to be stilled in turn, and it was\nlong before she felt them dropping into abeyance, like sentinels falling\nasleep at their posts. But gradually the sense of complete subjugation\ncame over her, and she wondered languidly what had made her feel so\nuneasy and excited. She saw now that there was nothing to be excited\nabout--she had returned to her normal view of life. Tomorrow would not be\nso difficult after all: she felt sure that she would have the strength to\nmeet it. She did not quite remember what it was that she had been afraid\nto meet, but the uncertainty no longer troubled her. She had been\nunhappy, and now she was happy--she had felt herself alone, and now the\nsense of loneliness had vanished. She stirred once, and turned on her side, and as she did so, she suddenly\nunderstood why she did not feel herself alone. It was odd--but Nettie\nStruther's child was lying on her arm: she felt the pressure of its\nlittle head against her shoulder. She did not know how it had come there,\nbut she felt no great surprise at the fact, only a gentle penetrating\nthrill of warmth and pleasure. She settled herself into an easier\nposition, hollowing her arm to pillow the round downy head, and holding\nher breath lest a sound should disturb the sleeping child. As she lay there she said to herself that there was something she must\ntell Selden, some word she had found that should make life clear between\nthem. She tried to repeat the word, which lingered vague and luminous on\nthe far edge of thought--she was afraid of not remembering it when she\nwoke; and if she could only remember it and say it to him, she felt that\neverything would be well. Slowly the thought of the word faded, and sleep began to enfold her. She\nstruggled faintly against it, feeling that she ought to keep awake on\naccount of the baby; but even this feeling was gradually lost in an\nindistinct sense of drowsy peace, through which, of a sudden, a dark\nflash of loneliness and terror tore its way. She started up again, cold and trembling with the shock: for a moment she\nseemed to have lost her hold of the child. But no--she was mistaken--the\ntender pressure of its body was still close to hers: the recovered warmth\nflowed through her once more, she yielded to it, sank into it, and slept. The next morning rose mild and bright, with a promise of summer in the\nair. The sunlight slanted joyously down Lily's street, mellowed the\nblistered house-front, gilded the paintless railings of the door-step,\nand struck prismatic glories from the panes of her darkened window. When such a day coincides with the inner mood there is intoxication in\nits breath; and Selden, hastening along the street through the squalor of\nits morning confidences, felt himself thrilling with a youthful sense of\nadventure. He had cut loose from the familiar shores of habit, and\nlaunched himself on uncharted seas of emotion; all the old tests and\nmeasures were left behind, and his course was to be shaped by new stars. That course, for the moment, led merely to Miss Bart's boarding-house;\nbut its shabby door-step had suddenly become the threshold of the\nuntried. As he approached he looked up at the triple row of windows,\nwondering boyishly which one of them was hers. It was nine o'clock, and\nthe house, being tenanted by workers, already showed an awakened front to\nthe street. He remembered afterward having noticed that only one blind\nwas down. He noticed too that there was a pot of pansies on one of the\nwindow sills, and at once concluded that the window must be hers: it was\ninevitable that he should connect her with the one touch of beauty in the\ndingy scene. Nine o'clock was an early hour for a visit, but Selden had passed beyond\nall such conventional observances. He only knew that he must see Lily\nBart at once--he had found the word he meant to say to her, and it could\nnot wait another moment to be said. It was strange that it had not come\nto his lips sooner--that he had let her pass from him the evening before\nwithout being able to speak it. But what did that matter, now that a new\nday had come? It was not a word for twilight, but for the morning. Selden ran eagerly up the steps and pulled the bell; and even in his\nstate of self-absorption it came as a sharp surprise to him that the door\nshould open so promptly. It was still more of a surprise to see, as he\nentered, that it had been opened by Gerty Farish--and that behind her, in\nan agitated blur, several other figures ominously loomed. \"Lawrence!\" Gerty cried in a strange voice, \"how could you get here so\nquickly?\" --and the trembling hand she laid on him seemed instantly to\nclose about his heart. He noticed the other faces, vague with fear and conjecture--he saw the\nlandlady's imposing bulk sway professionally toward him; but he shrank\nback, putting up his hand, while his eyes mechanically mounted the steep\nblack walnut stairs, up which he was immediately aware that his cousin\nwas about to lead him. A voice in the background said that the doctor might be back at any\nminute--and that nothing, upstairs, was to be disturbed. Some one else\nexclaimed: \"It was the greatest mercy--\" then Selden felt that Gerty had\ntaken him gently by the hand, and that they were to be suffered to go up\nalone. In silence they mounted the three flights, and walked along the passage\nto a closed door. Gerty opened the door, and Selden went in after her. Though the blind was down, the irresistible sunlight poured a tempered\ngolden flood into the room, and in its light Selden saw a narrow bed\nalong the wall, and on the bed, with motionless hands and calm\nunrecognizing face, the semblance of Lily Bart. That it was her real self, every pulse in him ardently denied.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-10, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-11 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Her real\nself had lain warm on his heart but a few hours earlier--what had he to\ndo with this estranged and tranquil face which, for the first time,\nneither paled nor brightened at his coming? Gerty, strangely tranquil too, with the conscious self-control of one who\nhas ministered to much pain, stood by the bed, speaking gently, as if\ntransmitting a final message. \"The doctor found a bottle of chloral--she had been sleeping badly for a\nlong time, and she must have taken an overdose by mistake.... There is no\ndoubt of that--no doubt--there will be no question--he has been very\nkind. I told him that you and I would like to be left alone with her--to\ngo over her things before any one else comes. I know it is what she would\nhave wished.\" Selden was hardly conscious of what she said. He stood looking down on\nthe sleeping face which seemed to lie like a delicate impalpable mask\nover the living lineaments he had known. He felt that the real Lily was\nstill there, close to him, yet invisible and inaccessible; and the\ntenuity of the barrier between them mocked him with a sense of\nhelplessness. There had never been more than a little impalpable barrier\nbetween them--and yet he had suffered it to keep them apart! And now,\nthough it seemed slighter and frailer than ever, it had suddenly hardened\nto adamant, and he might beat his life out against it in vain. He had dropped on his knees beside the bed, but a touch from Gerty\naroused him. He stood up, and as their eyes met he was struck by the\nextraordinary light in his cousin's face. \"You understand what the doctor has gone for? He has promised that there\nshall be no trouble--but of course the formalities must be gone through. And I asked him to give us time to look through her things first----\"\n\nHe nodded, and she glanced about the small bare room. \"It won't take\nlong,\" she concluded. \"No--it won't take long,\" he agreed. She held his hand in hers a moment longer, and then, with a last look at\nthe bed, moved silently toward the door. On the threshold she paused to\nadd: \"You will find me downstairs if you want me.\" Selden roused himself to detain her. \"But why are you going? She would\nhave wished----\"\n\nGerty shook her head with a smile. \"No: this is what she would have\nwished----\" and as she spoke a light broke through Selden's stony misery,\nand he saw deep into the hidden things of love. The door closed on Gerty, and he stood alone with the motionless sleeper\non the bed. His impulse was to return to her side, to fall on his knees,\nand rest his throbbing head against the peaceful cheek on the pillow. They had never been at peace together, they two; and now he felt himself\ndrawn downward into the strange mysterious depths of her tranquillity. But he remembered Gerty's warning words--he knew that, though time had\nceased in this room, its feet were hastening relentlessly toward the\ndoor. Gerty had given him this supreme half-hour, and he must use it as\nshe willed. He turned and looked about him, sternly compelling himself to regain his\nconsciousness of outward things. There was very little furniture in the\nroom. The shabby chest of drawers was spread with a lace cover, and set\nout with a few gold-topped boxes and bottles, a rose-coloured\npin-cushion, a glass tray strewn with tortoise-shell hair-pins--he shrank\nfrom the poignant intimacy of these trifles, and from the blank surface\nof the toilet-mirror above them. These were the only traces of luxury, of that clinging to the minute\nobservance of personal seemliness, which showed what her other\nrenunciations must have cost. There was no other token of her personality\nabout the room, unless it showed itself in the scrupulous neatness of the\nscant articles of furniture: a washing-stand, two chairs, a small\nwriting-desk, and the little table near the bed. On this table stood the\nempty bottle and glass, and from these also he averted his eyes. The desk was closed, but on its slanting lid lay two letters which he\ntook up. One bore the address of a bank, and as it was stamped and\nsealed, Selden, after a moment's hesitation, laid it aside. On the other\nletter he read Gus Trenor's name; and the flap of the envelope was still\nungummed. Temptation leapt on him like the stab of a knife. He staggered under it,\nsteadying himself against the desk. Why had she been writing to\nTrenor--writing, presumably, just after their parting of the previous\nevening? The thought unhallowed the memory of that last hour, made a mock\nof the word he had come to speak, and defiled even the reconciling\nsilence upon which it fell. He felt himself flung back on all the ugly\nuncertainties from which he thought he had cast loose forever. After all,\nwhat did he know of her life? Only as much as she had chosen to show him,\nand measured by the world's estimate, how little that was! By what\nright--the letter in his hand seemed to ask--by what right was it he who\nnow passed into her confidence through the gate which death had left\nunbarred? His heart cried out that it was by right of their last hour\ntogether, the hour when she herself had placed the key in his hand. Yes--but what if the letter to Trenor had been written afterward? He put it from him with sudden loathing, and setting his lips, addressed\nhimself resolutely to what remained of his task. After all, that task\nwould be easier to perform, now that his personal stake in it was\nannulled. He raised the lid of the desk, and saw within it a cheque-book and a few\npackets of bills and letters, arranged with the orderly precision which\ncharacterized all her personal habits. He looked through the letters\nfirst, because it was the most difficult part of the work. They proved to\nbe few and unimportant, but among them he found, with a strange commotion\nof the heart, the note he had written her the day after the Brys'\nentertainment. \"When may I come to you?\" --his words overwhelmed him with a realization\nof the cowardice which had driven him from her at the very moment of\nattainment. Yes--he had always feared his fate, and he was too honest to\ndisown his cowardice now; for had not all his old doubts started to life\nagain at the mere sight of Trenor's name? He laid the note in his card-case, folding it away carefully, as\nsomething made precious by the fact that she had held it so; then,\ngrowing once more aware of the lapse of time, he continued his\nexamination of the papers. To his surprise, he found that all the bills were receipted; there was\nnot an unpaid account among them. He opened the cheque-book, and saw\nthat, the very night before, a cheque of ten thousand dollars from Mrs.\nPeniston's executors had been entered in it. The legacy, then, had been\npaid sooner than Gerty had led him to expect. But, turning another page\nor two, he discovered with astonishment that, in spite of this recent\naccession of funds, the balance had already declined to a few dollars. A\nrapid glance at the stubs of the last cheques, all of which bore the date\nof the previous day, showed that between four or five hundred dollars of\nthe legacy had been spent in the settlement of bills, while the remaining\nthousands were comprehended in one cheque, made out, at the same time, to\nCharles Augustus Trenor. Selden laid the book aside, and sank into the chair beside the desk. He\nleaned his elbows on it, and hid his face in his hands. The bitter waters\nof life surged high about him, their sterile taste was on his lips. Did\nthe cheque to Trenor explain the mystery or deepen it? At first his mind\nrefused to act--he felt only the taint of such a transaction between a\nman like Trenor and a girl like Lily Bart. Then, gradually, his troubled\nvision cleared, old hints and rumours came back to him, and out of the\nvery insinuations he had feared to probe, he constructed an explanation\nof the mystery. It was true, then, that she had taken money from Trenor;\nbut true also, as the contents of the little desk declared, that the\nobligation had been intolerable to her, and that at the first opportunity\nshe had freed herself from it, though the act left her face to face with\nbare unmitigated poverty. That was all he knew--all he could hope to unravel of the story. The\nmute lips on the pillow refused him more than this--unless indeed they\nhad told him the rest in the kiss they had left upon his forehead.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-11, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-12 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Yes,\nhe could now read into that farewell all that his heart craved to find\nthere; he could even draw from it courage not to accuse himself for\nhaving failed to reach the height of his opportunity. He saw that all the conditions of life had conspired to keep them apart;\nsince his very detachment from the external influences which swayed her\nhad increased his spiritual fastidiousness, and made it more difficult\nfor him to live and love uncritically. But at least he HAD loved her--had\nbeen willing to stake his future on his faith in her--and if the moment\nhad been fated to pass from them before they could seize it, he saw now\nthat, for both, it had been saved whole out of the ruin of their lives. It was this moment of love, this fleeting victory over themselves, which\nhad kept them from atrophy and extinction; which, in her, had reached out\nto him in every struggle against the influence of her surroundings, and\nin him, had kept alive the faith that now drew him penitent and\nreconciled to her side. He knelt by the bed and bent over her, draining their last moment to its\nlees; and in the silence there passed between them the word which made\nall clear. THE END\n\n\n\n\nNotes:\n\n1. I have modernized this text by modernizing the contractions: do n't\nbecomes don't, etc. 2. I have retained the British spelling of words like favour and colour. 3. I found and corrected one instance of the name \"Gertie,\" which I\nchanged to \"Gerty\" to be consistent with rest of the book. Linda Ruoff\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-12, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-12", "answer": "Lily Bart, Selden, Bryant Park, sleeping medicine, Nettie Struther, Gerty Farish, Mrs. Peniston's estate, Gus Trenor, check book, debts paid, overdose, ambiguous suicide, Benedick, Lily's apartment, kitchen, holding baby, charity organization, successful marriage, newborn child, sorting possessions, proposal, love realization, despair, dinginess, middle age, death, beautiful weather, papers and belongings, cowardice, missed marriage, alone together"}]