She tied it off. She yanked his undershirt and shirt down over his back and tossed the blanket up over his back. She spread another blanket over him. ...he thumped his canteen down in front of his face. ‘That’s full,’ she said. She placed the Russian beside it gingerly. ‘So’s that.’ She got to her feet, dusted off her skirt, picked up a small canvas bag, and said, ‘That’s the best I can do. I’ll fetch a doctor. You can tell him your troubles.’ She walked away. Somehow, he pushed himself up onto. Everything else had fled her mind—concerns about her weight, about the pretending, about the nightmare—until Simon had almost bared her leg. Better that she should stop him now, even though she didn't want to, than to have him turn away in surprise and disgust. "Connie, please, calm down," he said. "Please. Tell me what's wrong. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I just—" Connie moved a little, attempting half-heartedly to leave again; Simon kept her close. "It's . . . my leg," she. More

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