There are
men--patients, I mean--very hard to deal with; men who resent being ill,
resent having to have things done to them and for them, who especially
resent the services of women, even of nurses--I mean in quite indifferent
things, not merely in things where a man may naturally shrink from their
help. Well, you don't seem that sort of man in the least." She looked at
him, as she ended this appreciation of him, as though she expected an
answer or a comment. Beaumaroy made neither; he walked on, not even
looking at her.
"And you can't have been troubled long with that wound. It evidently
healed up quickly and sweetly."
Beaumaroy looked for an instant at his maimed hand with a critical air;
but he was still silent.
"So that I wonder you didn't do as most patients do--let the nurse, or,
if you were still disabled after you came out, a friend or somebody, cut
up your food for you without providing yourself with that implement." He
turned his head quickly towards her. "And if you ask me what implement I
mean, I shall answer--the one you tried to snatch from the sideboard at
Tower Cottage before I could see it.
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