“You’re nice, but think of my other leg so much shorter it will be disfigured.” Tears came to her eyes.
“It won’t be short in the least.”
“It’s shorter now. My hip is pulled up. And it’s getting thinner than the other as I fail to use the muscles. And I’m — well, I’m not as young as I used to be.”
I smiled tolerantly.
“I tell you I’m not. How old do you think am?”
I pursed my lips, went through the motions of disinterested appraisal. “Well,” I said thoughtfully, “you’re probably past thirty-five, but it’s not fair to ask me that question, now, because a woman always looks older in a wheel-chair. If you were walking around I’d... well, I guess perhaps you are around thirty-five, at that.”
She beamed at me. “Do you think so?”
“Right around there.”
She said, “I’m forty-one.”
“What?” I exclaimed incredulously.