It was the sixth day, and Edith Dalton was doing well--the wound was
doing well. As for the woman, she lay with indifferent eyes looking at
the white wall of her room and waiting recovery. The only time that the
look in the eyes changed was when Aunt Jane appeared in the doorway for
a moment, or sat by her bed. Then it would deepen to a question and
flicker toward hope.
"Doing well?" Aunt Jane would say. "They give you good things to eat,
don't they?"