"I'm glad you came to me, Anne."
She moistened her lips and spoke without opening her eyes. "It was you or Clifford—and Cliff hasn't practiced for a century or more. It's—it's quite important to me, Webb. I really want to live. Not because I'm afraid of dying, but...."
"I know, Anne. I know."
Everyone in Chicago knew. Anne Tabor was the first female of that city to be chosen for motherhood in almost a decade. And in the three days since the news had flashed from Washington, Anne Tabor had generated within the blood-stream of her lovely, near-perfect body, a mutated cancerous cell that threatened to destroy her. Mutant leukemia!
"Just relax, dear. We have the whole city of Chicago to draw on for blood while we work this thing out."
He touched a cool hand to her fevered forehead, and the slight motion stirred the golden halo that her hair made on the silvery surface of the mercury.
The word, "dear", echoed strangely in his ears once he had said it. Her eyes had opened at the expression of sentiment, and now they were wide and blue as they examined him. A tiny smile curved her pale lips. "Did I hear correctly?"