‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. ‘It is what my father intended. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. So far he had not stirred; from his bloodless lips had come no sound. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. ‘You’d do the same.
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