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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 third day； feeling as frail as a newborn； i got up。 as i pulled the curtains apart； my room was flooded with a fresh； clean light。 outside； a brilliant； cloudless blue stretched from horizon to horizon； and beneath it the garden sparkled with frost。 it was as if during those long overcast days the light had been accumulating behind the cloud； and now that the cloud was gone there was nothing to stop it flooding down； drenching us in a fortnight’s worth of illumination at once。 blinking in the brilliance； i felt something like life begin to move sluggishly in my veins。
before breakfast i went outdoors。 slowly and cautiously i stepped around the lawn with shadow at my heels。 it was crisp underfoot； and everywhere the sun sparkled on icy foliage。 the frost…rimed grass held the imprint of my soles； but at my side shadow stepped like a dainty ghost； leaving no prints。 at first the cold； dry air was like a knife in my throat； but little by little it rejuvenated me； and i rejoiced in the exhilaration。 neverthel