She thought he could not have heard her, but he called: "Clytie!" She crossed the room and bent a little over to meet his eyes when he weakly turned his head on the pillow.
"Nancy!" He began to laugh, sliding a thin hand toward one of hers.

The laugh did not end until there were tears in his eyes.

She laughed with him as a strong-voiced singer would help a weaker, and he tried to put a friendly force into his grip of the firm-fleshed little hand he had found.
"Don't be flattered, Nance--it's only typhoid emotion," he said at last, in a voice that sounded strangely unused.

"You don't really overcome me, you know--the sight of you doesn't unman me as much as these fond tears might make you suspect.

I shall feel that way when Clytie brings my lunch, too." He smiled and drew her hand into both his own as she sat beside him.
"How plump and warm your hand is--all full of little whispering pulses.