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Gregory, Jackson, 1882-1943

"The Bells of San Juan"

A man gets spoiled when he's laid up
like this, doesn't he? Especially when it's the first time he can
remember when he has stuck in bed for upward of twenty-four hours
running."
Despite her familiarity with the swift ravages of illness she received
a positive shock as she looked at him; she had visualized him during
these latter days as she had last seen him, brown, vitally robust, the
embodiment of lean, clean strength. Now sunless inaction had set its
mark in his skin which had already grown sallow; his eyes burned into
her own, his hand fell weakly to the coverlet as she removed her own,
his fingers plucking nervously. And yet she summoned a cheerful smile
to answer his.
"I was satisfied just in hearing that you were doing well," she said.
"And I know that the fewer people a sick man sees the better for him."
He moved his head restlessly back and forth on his pillow.
"Not for a man like me," he told her. "I'm not used to this sort of
business. Just lying here with my eyes shut or staring at the ceiling,
which is worse, drives a man mad. I told Patten to-day that if he
didn't let me see folks I'd get up and go out if I had to crawl."
Virginia laughed, determined to be cheerful.
"I am afraid that you make a rather troublesome patient, don't you?"
she asked lightly.


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