"Oh, don't!" she cried, setting the bowl on the floor and gently
pushing him back on his pillow; "you must not!"
He laughed. "Just like a woman. You surely don't think I'm going to
lie here for a week, like a sick cat, for such a little scratch. I've
lost some blood, that's all." And before she could prevent it, he had
drawn himself up and was smiling broadly.
"I can't look after sick folks," she said, in despair. "The doctor
will blame me."
"I heard him say if you hadn't held my cut so well I'd have bled to
death."
"Anybody else could have done it."
"Nobody else didn't."
"Do you want the gruel? Take it quick, and lie down again; you'll lose
strength sitting up."
"You'll have to feed me," he said, opening his mouth. "I'm too blamed
weak to sit up without propping with my hands, and they don't seem very
good supports. Look how that one is wobbling."
She sat down on the edge of the bed, and without a word placed the bowl
in her lap and her arm round him. Then neither spoke as she filled the
spoon and held it to his lips. She felt him trying to steady his arms
to keep his weight from her.
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