“Just a strain. These things crop up like bursting blisters after accidents, Sophie.”
Her voice was frighteningly quiet and shocked him out of his shell. She said:
“It doesn’t do any good to lie to a person without relatives. I report murder trials, you know ... and I have a hellish imagination. No truth is as bad as imagination!”
Cub’s hand covered hers quickly. Their eyes locked and his voice was calm and certain:
“It may be nothing. It may be a touch of phlebitis. In either event, I’ll take no chances. That leg is to be bound and remain bound for twenty-four hours. And you are to lie absolutely still and leave all of the worrying to me.”
He gave the hand a squeeze and began sliding too deeply into her eyes. He said banteringly:
“What brand do you smoke, Soph?”
Twinkles pleated around her nose, but her lips were sober:
“What’s phlebitis?”
Cub shook his head threateningly: