As he passed the lamps in the long hall they flung his shadow forward ahead of him. She turned up the wick on the oil lamp so it enlarged the diameter of light around her. She sat very still, the book on her lap, as he came up to her and then crouched beside her like an uncle. 

“Tell me what a tonsil is.” 

 

Her eyes staring at him. 

 

“I keep remembering how you stormed out of the hospital followed by two grown men.” 

 

She nodded. 

 

“Is your patient in there? Can I go in?” 

 

She shook her head, kept shaking it until he spoke again. 

 

“I’ll see him tomorrow, then. Just tell me where to go. I don’t need sheets. Is there a kitchen? Such a strange journey I took in order to find you.” 

 

When he had gone along the hall she came back to the table and sat down, trembling. Needing this table, this half-finished book in order to collect herself. A man she knew had come all the way by train and walked the four miles uphill from the village and along the hall to this table just to see her.