“Does it hurt much?”
“Can you move your fingers?”
“Just a little.”
She murmured in sympathy and stroked his hair with her gloved hand. She was dressed to go out and wore a cloche hat and a fashionable new dress, the kind the flappers were wearing. “I hate seeing you like this,” she said.
“Then you should leave.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“That’s what it sounded like.”
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
“It’s my hand, Margaret, not my head I’ve injured. Don’t treat me like a child.”
He said nothing, just continued turning the pages of the binder with his uninjured hand.
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