XII + 

Cecily did not appear at breakfast. Her father mounted to her room, and knocked this time. + 

“Yes?” her voice penetrated the wood, muffled thinly. + 

“It’s me, Sis. Can I come in?” + 

There was no reply, so he entered. She had not even bathed her face, and upon the pillow she was flushed and childish with sleep. The room was permeated with her body’s intimate repose; it was in his nostrils like an odor and he felt ill at ease, cumbersome and awkward. He sat on the edge of the bed and took her surrendered hand diffidently. It was unresponsive. + 

“How do you feel this morning?” + 

She made no reply, lazily feeling her ascendency and he continued with assumed lightness: “Do you feel better about poor young Mahon this morning?” + 

“I’ve put him out of my mind. He doesn’t need me any more.” + 

“Course he does,” heartily, “we expect you to be his best medicine.” + 

“How can I?” + 

“How? What do you mean?” + 

“He brought his own medicine with him.” + 

Her calmness, her exasperating calmness. He must flog himself into yesterday’s rage. That was the only way to do anything with ’em, damn ’em. + 

“Did it ever occur to you that I, in my limited way, may know more about this than you?” + 

She withdrew her hand and slid it beneath the covers, making no reply, not even looking at him. + 

He continued: “You are acting like a fool, Cecily. What did the man do to you yesterday?” + 

“He simply insulted me before another woman. But I don’t care to discuss it.” + 

“But listen, Sis. Are you refusing to even see him when seeing him means whether or not he will get well again?” + 

“He’s got that black woman. If she can’t cure him with all her experience, I certainly can’t.” + 

Her father’s face slowly suffused. She glanced at him impersonally then turned her head on the pillow, staring out the window. + 

“So you refuse to see him any more?” + 

“What else can I do? He very evidently does not want me to bother him any longer. Do you want me to go where I am not wanted?” + 

He swallowed his anger, trying to speak calmly, trying to match her calm. “Don’t you see that I’m not trying to make you do anything? that I am only trying to help that boy get on his feet again? Suppose he was Bob, suppose Bob was lying there like he is.” + 

“Then you’d better get engaged to him yourself. I’m not.” + 

“Look at me,” he said with such quiet, such repression that she lay motionless, holding her breath. He put a rough hand on her shoulder. + 

“You don’t have to manhandle me,” she told him calmly, turning her head. + 

“Listen to me. You are not to see that Farr boy, any more. Understand?” + 

Her eyes were unfathomable as sea water. + 

“Do you understand me?” he repeated. + 

“Yes, I hear you.” + 

He rose. They were amazingly alike. He turned at the door meeting her stubborn, impersonal gaze. “I meant it, Sis.” + 

Her eyes clouded suddenly. “I am sick and tired of men. Do you think I care?” + 

The door closed behind him and she lay staring at its inscrutable, painted surface, running her fingers lightly over her breasts, across her belly, drawing concentric circles upon her body beneath the covers, wondering how it would feel to have a baby, hating that inevitable time when she’d have to have one, blurring her slim epicenity, blurring her body with pain.⁠ ⁠… + 