ways trust John Sheldon's hands. They never drew back if you jerked, or slipped if you twinged.
It was because John Sheldon was so much like an instrument that you didn't mind telling him things about your body. But it had never occurred to Sheilah to talk to him about anything else. Until he came to examine her for appendicitis. And then suddenly he became quite different from an instrument. No instrument could have understood about the algebra.
John Sheldon was holding her hand in his firm, clinical grasp, taking her pulse, she supposed, when he asked her about the algebra, casually, in an offhand manner.
'Your mother tells me you're working on your algebra late at night. In bed.'
'Yes.'
'Bothering you a little, is it?'
'No, it isn't bothering me at all. I told mother it wasn't.'
'Then why work on it in the middle of the night?' he asked casually, his eyes on his investigating fingers.
'Because it doesn't bother me,' said Sheilah.
'Because it doesn't bother you,' he paused a moment. 'Oh, I see!' he exclaimed softly. 'To put yourself to sleep. Instead of counting sheep.'
She looked up to him gratefully.
