Then crossed the room and shoved back the limp sash curtains to let in a little more air if possible.
Sheilah lay silent and unresponsive. She was aware of the tender, fumbling attentions. Always trying so hard. She would thank him later. But not now. She couldn't now. Only one thought was in her mind now—one fear, crowding out everything else. She didn't want any more imperfect clay. Oh, she couldn't have any more imperfect clay!
But Sheilah wasn't going to have any more imperfect clay. The relief was so great at first that for days she ignored the persistent sensation of nausea, and queer gripping attacks of tiredness that would steal upon her every few hours, fling heavy arms about her and bear down on her, till she drooped and succumbed.
One afternoon Felix brought a doctor home with him. The doctor stayed an hour, and returned several days later. Again returned several days later. And again. And still again. Five visits in all. Five times five is twenty-five dollars. On his fifth visit Dr. Evarts told Sheilah he could find no physical cause for her sensations. Sheilah, again from a sense of relief (for she had begun to be afraid that there might be something organic and expensive the matter with her), ignored the sickness and fatigue,
