Her white wool gloves lay in
her lap.
Kennicott drew from the injured leg the thick red "German sock," the
innumerous other socks of gray and white wool, then the spiral bandage.
The leg was of an unwholesome dead white, with the black hairs feeble
and thin and flattened, and the scar a puckered line of crimson. Surely,
Carol shuddered, this was not human flesh, the rosy shining tissue of
the amorous poets.
Kennicott examined the scar, smiled at Halvor and his wife, chanted,
"Fine, b' gosh! Couldn't be better!"
The Nelsons looked deprecating. The farmer nodded a cue to his wife and
she mourned:
"Vell, how much ve going to owe you, doctor?"
"I guess it'll be----Let's see: one drive out and two calls. I guess
it'll be about eleven dollars in all, Lena."
"I dunno ve can pay you yoost a little w'ile, doctor."
Kennicott lumbered over to her, patted her shoulder, roared, "Why, Lord
love you, sister, I won't worry if I never get it! You pay me next fall,
when you get your crop. . . . Carrie! Suppose you or Bea could shake up
a cup of coffee and some cold lamb for the Nelsons? They got a long cold
drive ahead.
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