''You do not even have to have a baby to go this time," he soothed, looking for the brush to pack. "Remember, after Davy you told meworthy to have a baby for the pleasure of the ten-day rest in the hospital?"
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"Where now? Not home yet?" Her voice mourned. "Where
is
my home?"
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He rose to ease her back. "The doctor, the hospital," he started to explain, but deftly, like a snake, she had slithered out of bed and stood swaying, propped behind the night table.
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"Coward," she hissed, "runner."
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"You stand," he said senselessly.
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"To take me there and run. Afraid of a little vomit."
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He reached her as she fell. She struggled against him, half slipped from his arms, pulled herself up again.
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"Weakling," she taunted, "to leave me there and run. Betrayer. All your life you have run."
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He sobbed, telling Jeannie. "A Marilyn Monroe to run for her virtue. Fifty-nine pounds she weighs, the doctor said, and she beats at me like a Dempsey. Betrayer, she cries, and I running like a dog when she calls; day and night, running to her, her vomit, the bed-pan. . . ."
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 | "She needs you, Grandaddy," said Jeannie. "Isn't that what they call love? I'll see if she sleeps, and if she does, poor worn-out darling, we'll have a party, you and I: I brought us rum babas."
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They did not move her. By her bed now stood the tall hooked pillar that held the solutionsblood and dex-
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