"I wonder how many people
ever let a person who is selling something at the door get into the
house. And if they let her in, do they ever, _ever_ ask her to sit down?
The places where I've stood, telling them about the book, while they
were telling me they didn't want it--stood and stood--and stood--with
great easy chairs in sight! Oh, that chair in my doctor's office--it was
the first chair I'd sat in that whole morning. I went to sleep in it, I
think."
There followed a long silence, as if the thought of sleep had brought
it on. But then the rambling talk began again.
"His hair is red--red, like mine. I think that's why his heart
is so warm. Yet her heart is warm, too, and her hair is almost
black. The other man's hair was pretty dark, too, and his
heart seemed--well, not exactly cold. Did he send me some
daffodils the other day? I can't seem to remember. It seems as
if I had seen some--pretty things--lovely, springy things.
Perhaps Mrs.--the red-headed doctor's wife--queer I can't
think of their names--perhaps she sent them. It would be like
her."
The nurse's glance wandered, in the faint light, to where a great jar of
daffodils stood upon the farther window sill, their heads nodding
faintly in the night breeze. Jordan King's card, which had come with
them, was tucked away in a drawer near by with two other cards, bearing
the same name, which had accompanied other flowers.
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