She replied: “I don’t feel as if I could touch a morsel.”
It was the consecrated formula, and he expected it to be followed, as usual, by her rising and going down to supper. But she remained seated, and he could think of nothing more felicitous than: “I presume you’re tired after the long ride.”
Turning her head at this, she answered solemnly: “I’m a great deal sicker than you think.”
Her words fell on his ear with a strange shock of wonder. He had often heard her pronounce them before—what if at last they were true?
He advanced a step or two into the dim room. “I hope that’s not so, Zeena,” he said.
She continued to gaze at him through the twilight with a mien of wan authority, as of one consciously singled out for a great fate. “I’ve got complications,” she said.
Ethan knew the word for one of exceptional import. Almost everybody in the neighbourhood had “troubles,” frankly localized and specified; but only the chosen had “complications.” To have them was in itself a distinction, though it was also, in most cases, a death-warrant. People struggled on for years with “troubles,” but they almost always succumbed to “complications.”
Ethan’s heart was jerking to and fro between two extremities of feeling, but for the moment compassion prevailed. His wife looked so hard and lonely, sitting there in the darkness with such thoughts.
“Is that what the new doctor told you?” he asked, instinctively lowering his voice.
“Yes. He says any regular doctor would want me to have an operation.”