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u might drift apart or you might turn your back on them； but you can’t say you haven’t got them。 same goes for stories。 so；“ she concluded； ”everybody has a story。 when are you going to tell me yours？“
‘i’m not。“
she put her head to one side and waited for me to go on。
‘i’ve never told anyone my story。 if i’ve got one； that is。 and i can’t see any reason to change now。“
‘i see；“ she said softly； nodding her head as though she really did。 ”well； it’s your business； of course。“ she turned her hand in her lap and stared into her damaged palm。 ”you are at liberty to say nothing； if that is what you want。 but silence is not a natural environment for stories。 they need words。 without them they grow pale； sicken and die。 and then they haunt you。“ her eyes swiveled back to me。 ”believe me； margaret。 i know。“
for long stretches of time i slept； and whenever i woke； there was some invalid’s meal by my bed； prepared by judith。 i ate a mouthful or two； no more。 when judith came to take the tray away she could not disguise her disappointment at seeing my leavings； yet she never mentioned it。 i was in no pain—no headache； no chills； no sickness—unless you count profound weariness and a remorse that weighed heavily in my head and in my heart。 what had i done to emmeline？ and aurelius？ in my waking hours i was tormented by the memory of that night； the guilt pursued me into sleep。
‘how is emmeline？“ i asked judith。 ”is she all right？“
her answers were indirect： why should i be worried about miss emmeline when i was poorly myself？ miss emmeline had not been right for a very long time。 miss emmeline was getting on in years。
her reluctance to spell it out told me everything i wanted to know。 emmeline was not well。 it was my fault。
as for aurelius； the only thing i could do was write。 as soon as i was able； i had judith bring me pen and paper and； propped up on a pillow； drafted a letter。 not satisfied； i attempted another and then another。 never had i had such difficulty with words。 when my bedcover was so strewn with rejected versions that i despaired at myself； i selected one at random and made a neat copy：
dear aurelius；are you all right？
i’m so sorry about what happened。 i never meant to hurt anyone。 i was mad； wasn’t i？
when can i see you？
are we still friends？
margaretit would have to do。
dr。 clifton came。 he listened to my heart and asked me lots of questions。 “insomnia？ irregular sleep？ nightmares？”
i nodded three times。
‘i thought so。“
he took a thermometer and instructed me to place it under my tongue； then rose and strode to the window。 with his back to me； he asked； “and what do you read？”
with the thermometer in my mouth i could not reply。
“wuthering heights—you’ve read that？”
‘mm…hmm。“
‘and jane eyre？“
‘mm。“
“sense and sensibility？”
‘hm…m。“
he turned and looked gravely at me。 “and i suppose you’ve read these books more than once？”
i nodded and he frowned。
‘read and reread？ many times？“
once more i nodded； and his frown deepened。
‘since childhood？“
i was baffled by his questions； but pelled by the gravity of his gaze； nodded once again。
beneath his dark brow his eyes narrowed to slits。 i could quite see how he might frighten his patients into getting well； just to be rid of him。
and then he leaned close to me to read the thermometer。
people look different from close up。 a dark brow is still a dark brow； but you can see the individual hairs in it； how nearly they are aligned。 the last few brow hairs； very fine； almost invisible； strayed off in the section of his temple； pointed to the snail…coil of his ear。 in the grain his skin were closely arranged pinpricks of beard。 there it was again： that almost imperceptible flaring of the nostrils； that twitch at the edge the mouth。 i had always taken it for severity； a clue that he thought little of me； but now； seeing it from so few inches away； it occurred to me that it might not be disapproval after all。 was it possible； i thought； that dr。 clifton was secretly laughing at me？
he removed the thermometer from my mouth； folded his arms and delivered his diagnosis。 “you are suffering from an ailment that afflicts ladies of romantic imagination。 symptoms include fainting； weariness； loss of appetite； low spirits。 while on one level the crisis can be ascribed to wandering about in freezing rain without the benefit of adequate waterproofing； the deeper cause is more likely to be found in some emotional trauma。 however； unlike the heroines of your favorite novels； your constitution has not been weakened by the privations of life in earlier； harsher centuries。 no tuberculosis； no childhood polio； no unhygienic living conditions。 you’ll survive。”
he looked me straight in the eyes； and i was unable to slide my gaze away when he said； “you don’t eat enough。”
‘i have no appetite。“
“l’appetit vient en mangeant。”
‘appetite es by eating；“ i translated。
‘exactly。 your appetite will e back。 but you must meet it halfway。 you must want it to e。“
it was my turn to frown。
‘treatment is not plicated： eat； rest and take this…“—he made quick notes on a pad； tore out a page and placed it on my bedside table—”and the weakness and fatigue will be gone in a few days。“ reaching for his case； he stowed his pen and paper。 then； rising to leave； he hesitated。 ”i’d like to ask you about these dreams of yours； but i suspect you wouldn’t like to tell me…“
stonily i regarded him。 “i wouldn’t。”
his face fell。 “thought not。”
from the door he saluted me and was gone。
i reached for the prescription。 in a vigorous scrawl； he had inked： sir arthur conan doyle； the case book of sherlock holmes。 take ten pages； twice a day； till end of course。
。。！
DECEMBER DAYS
×××小×说×网
obeying dr。 clifton’s instructions； i spent two days in bed； eating and sleeping and reading sherlock holmes。 i confess i overdosed on my prescribed treatment； gulping down one story after another。 before the end of the second day judith had been down to the library and fetched another volume of conan doyle for me。 she had grown suddenly kind toward me since my collapse。 it was not the fact that she was sorry for me that altered her—though she was sorry— but the fact that now emmeline’s presence was no longer a secret in the house； she was at liberty to let her natural sympathies govern her exchanges with me； instead of maintaining a constantly guarded facade。
‘and has she never said anything about the thirteenth tale？“ she asked me wistfully one day。
‘not a word。 and to you？“
she shook her head。 “never。 it’s strange； isn’t it； after all she’s written； that the most famous story of all is one that might not even exist； just think； she could probably publish a book with all the stories missing and it would still sell like hotcakes。” and then； with a shake of the lead to clear her thoughts； and a new tone； “so what do you make of dr。 clifton； then？”
when dr。 clifton dropped by to see how i was doing； his eye alighted on the volumes by my bedside； he said nothing but his nostrils twitched。
on the