Then her fingers seemed to play about his temples and along his cheeks and neck.

She was the professional nurse now, absorbed, sexless.

Heritage ceased to babble, his eyes shut and he was asleep.
She remained where she was, so that the Poet, when a few minutes later he woke, found himself lying with his head in her lap.

She spoke first, in an imperative tone: "You are well now.

Your head does not ache.