“You have troubles of your own,” she answered, as lightly as she could.
“That’s true, too,” he agreed in the same tone. “So many that a little one more or less wouldn’t count.”
“Do you call my wound little?”
“I meant the foot was little—”
She checked him.
“I didn’t mean to make light of it. It sure is no joke.” He added, “I’ve made a start on the book.”
“How do you like it?”
“I don’t know yet,” he answered, and went back to his corner.
She snuggled under her warm quilts again, remorseful, yet not daring to suggest a return of the blanket he had lent. When she woke again he was on his feet, swinging his arms silently. His candle had gone out, but a faint light was showing in the room.
“Is it morning?” she asked.