“And I went and made it for you extry,” Isolde whined, “and a pork fricassee and all. You never want nothing.”
“Eat the stuff yourself,” Karen said spitefully.
Isolde carried the soup out again.
“Can’t you close the window?” Karen whined. “Why do you always have to open it? A person can freeze to death.”
Christian closed the window.
“I’d like to know why she carried the soup out again,” Karen said after a while. “That’d suit her, to gorge herself on what’s meant for me. I’m hungry.”
Christian went to the kitchen and brought in the soup. He sat down beside her bed, and held the plate in both hands while she laboriously ate the soup. “It’s hot,” she moaned, and pressed her head against the pillows. “Open the window so’s I can get a bit of air.”
He opened the window. Karen looked at him with a dull wonder in her eyes. His patience was unfathomable to her. She wanted to get him to the point of scolding and showing her her place.
During the night she would make twenty demands and then reverse them with embittered impatience. His kindliness remained uniform. It enraged her; she wanted to scream. She cried out to him: “What kind of a man are you, for God’s sake?” She shook her fists.
Christian did not know what to answer.