She was weeping. “All the while I was eating my egg....”
“Oh what is it?”
She grimaced.
“From him.”
He stared.
“A cheque, Job—come through—from him. From our boy.”
His mouth fell open, he drew a deep breath. His tears came. He raised himself, and was reminded of his bandaged state and dropped back again. He held out his lean hand to her.
“He’s a prisoner?” he gasped. “Alive?”
She nodded. She seemed about to fling herself violently upon his poor crumpled body. Her arms waved about seeking for something to embrace.
Then she flopped down in the narrow space between bed and paper-adorned fireplace, and gathered the counterpane together into a lump with her clutching hands. “Oh my baby boy!” she wept. “My baby boy....