Isabel’s eyes were closed, and she did not open them or move her head, but she smiled and edged her hand toward him as he sat on a stool beside the bed. He took that slender, cold hand, and put it to his cheek.
“Darling, did you—get something to eat?” She could only whisper, slowly and with difficulty. It was as if Isabel herself were far away, and only able to signal what she wanted to say.
“Yes, mother.”
“All you—needed?”
“Yes, mother.”
She did not speak again for a time; then, “Are you sure you didn’t—didn’t catch cold coming home?”
“I’m all right, mother.”
“That’s good. It’s sweet—it’s sweet—”
“What is, mother darling?”
“To feel—my hand on your cheek. I—I can feel it.”