The Counterpane

           Uponwakingnextmorningaboutdaylight,IfoundQueequeg’sarmthrownovermeinthemostlovingandaffectionatemanner.YouhadalmostthoughtIhadbeenhiswife.Thecounterpanewasofpatchwork,fullofoddlittleparti-coloredsquaresandtriangles;andthisarmofhistattooedalloverwithaninterminableCretanlabyrinthofafigure,notwopartsofwhichwereofonepreciseshadeowingIsupposetohiskeepinghisarmatseaunmethodicallyinsunandshade,hisshirtsleevesirregularlyrolledupatvarioustimesthissamearmofhis,Isay,lookedforalltheworldlikeastripofthatsamepatchworkquilt.Indeed,partlylyingonitasthearmdidwhenIfirstawoke,Icouldhardlytellitfromthequilt,theysoblendedtheirhuestogether;anditwasonlybythesenseofweightandpressurethatIcouldtellthatQueequegwashuggingme.

           Mysensationswerestrange.Letmetrytoexplainthem.WhenIwasachild,Iwellrememberasomewhatsimilarcircumstancethatbefellme;whetheritwasarealityoradream,Inevercouldentirelysettle.Thecircumstancewasthis.IhadbeencuttingupsomecaperorotherIthinkitwastryingtocrawlupthechimney,asIhadseenalittlesweepdoafewdaysprevious;andmystepmotherwho,somehoworother,wasallthetimewhippingme,orsendingmetobedsupperlessmymotherdraggedmebythelegsoutofthechimneyandpackedmeofftobed,thoughitwasonlytwoo’clockintheafternoonofthe21stJune,thelongestdayinyearinourhemisphere.Ifeltdreadfully.Buttherewasnohelpforit,soupstairsIwenttomylittleroominthethirdfloor,undressedmyselfasslowlyaspossiblesoastokilltime,andwithabittersighgotbetweenthesheets.

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