Two found girls, but the third stood hesitantly. A girl on the next bunk from Duncan and Martha, rubbed her man's head briskly and said quietly, "Good night, mister. Got another customer. See you soon." She waved in the new man as the other heaved reluctantly to his feet. "Good night, honey," he said simply and left.
Men stepped over Duncan's legs coming and going, without remark, without greeting.
Almost no conversation took place. A whispered good night or a soft word of comfort, and then minutes of silence except for the rustle of deep sighing breathing.
Then Martha's hands stopped. She pulled him to his feet and led him toward the arch. Instantly several girls' heads turned toward them. "Want help, Doctor?" one asked almost sharply.
"No thanks, Claire. This boy's sick."
She led him back to his room. He turned his back to the bed as though to sit down, but instead he moved to her. She slid into his arms as though it were rehearsed, and he crushed her close to him. Through their light garments he felt her body strain for a brief moment then completely relax. She peeled away from his lips.
"Mister, that will cost you just $10,000. You're on report!"
The shock of her voice was a cold plunge back to another reality. Duncan's hands fell to his sides and he sat down heavily, head bowed. Martha lifted his legs, untwined the sheet and tucked in the blankets. Suddenly she dropped to him and pressed her face to his. "You poor devil! You poor, poor, devil!" Her tears rolled down to his face, and she cried unrestrainedly for more than a minute. Duncan kept his hands at his sides, and it was his greatest triumph of self-control.
He gave himself two days to affect recovery. On the second morning he called for Dr. Martha Rice. She came in alone, her darkly handsome face inscrutable. "You are better, I hear. For exactly how long have you been feeling better?"