“I don't want any,” said Siward.
“Eat!” said Dr. Grisby harshly.
“I—don't care to.”
“Eat, I tell you! Do you think I don't mean what I say?”
So he ate his broth and toast, the doctor curtly declining to join him. He ate hurriedly, closing his eyes in aversion. Even the iced tea was flat and distasteful to him.
And at last he lay back, white and unstrung, the momentarily deadened desperation glimmering under his half-closed eyes. And for a long while Dr. Grisby sat, doubled almost in two, cuddling his bony little knees and studying the patterns in the faded carpet.
“I guess you'd better go, Stephen,” he said at length.
“Up the river—to Mulqueen's?”
“Yes. Let's try it, Steve. You'll be on your feet in two weeks. Then you'd better go—up the river—to Mulqueen's.”
“I—I'll go, if you say so. But I can't go now.”