She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. “Damned Rascal!” he said. And it is your own fault that your husband dallies with me. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. Yet she held her tongue. Sheppard had been interred. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never tell whom he married. When he recovered his mental faculties, he would lie there, neutral; they could save him or let him die, as they pleased; and the doctor knew that he would wear himself out forcing his own will to live into this neutrality. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday.
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