“You got this from Jan-an?”
“I got it from her and from Peneluna. Peter, Peneluna looks and acts like one of them queer sort of ancient bodies what used to sit on altars or something, and make remarks that no one was expected to differ from. She just dropped in this morning and said that Larry Rivers had taken her shack; was paying for it, too.”
“Has, or is going to?” Peter was giving himself time to think.
“Has!” Aunt Polly was pulling her cushions into the cavities of her tired little body.
“Damn funny!” muttered Peter and added another log. The heat was growing ferocious. Then, as he eyed his sister: “Better turn in, Polly. You look scrunched.” To look 107 “scrunched” was to look desperately exhausted. “No use wearing yourself out for––for folks,” he added with a tenderness in his voice that always brought a peculiar smile to Polly’s eyes.
“I don’t see as there is anything else much, brother, to wear one’s self out for.”
“Why frazzle yourself for anything?”
“Why shouldn’t I? What should I be keeping myself for, Peter? Surely not for my own satisfaction. No. I always hold if folks want me, then I’m particularly pleased to be had. As to frazzling, seems like we only frazzle just so far, then a stitch holds and we get our breath.”
In this mood Polly worried Peter deeply. He could not keep from looking ahead––he avoided that usually––to a time when the little nest at the far end of the sofa would be empty; when the click of knitting needles would sound no more in the beautiful old room.
“There’s me!” he whispered at length like a half-ashamed but frightened boy.