So--so full of faith. And, Wheeler, he thinks he's
going to get well and lead a useful life like they teach the blind to
do. He reminds me of one of those Greek statues down at the Athens Cafe.
You know--broken. That's it; he's a broken statue."
"Poor fellow! Poor fellow! Do something for him. Buy the finest fruit in
the town for him. Send a case of wine. Two."
"I--I think I must be torn to pieces inside, Wheeler, the way I've
cried."
"Poor little girl!"
"Wheeler?"
"Now, now," he said; "taking it so to heart won't do no good. It's
rotten, I know, but worrying won't help. Got me right upset, too. Come,
get it off your mind. Let's take a ride. Doll up; you look a bit peaked.
Come now, and to-morrow we'll buy out the town for him."
"Wheeler?" she said. "Wheeler?"
"What?"
"Don't look, Wheeler. I've something else to ask of you--something
queer."
"Now, now," he said, his voice hardening but trying to maintain a
chiding note; "you know what you promised after the chinchilla--no more
this year until--"
"No, no; for God's sake, not that! It's still about Gerald.
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