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There was a fresh little grave on the inside of her right forearm.
* * * * *
Sometimes in the weeks that followed a sense of the miracle of what was
happening would clutch at Alma's throat like a fear.
Louis did not know.
That the old neuralgic recurrences were more frequent again, yes.
Already plans for a summer trip abroad, on a curative mission bent,
were taking shape. There was a famous nerve specialist, the one who
had worked such wonders on his mother's cruelly rheumatic limbs,
reassuringly foremost in his mind.
But except that there were not infrequent and sometimes twenty-four-hour
sieges when he was denied the sight of his wife, he had learned, with a
male's acquiescence to the frailties of the other sex, to submit, and,
with no great understanding of pain, to condone.
And as if to atone for these more or less frequent lapses, there was
something pathetic, even a little heartbreaking, in Carrie's zeal for
his well-being. No duty too small.


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