Let me fan
you. Here, ma, I didn't mean it. See--I'm holding you tight. I won't
never let go. You're my little sweetheart mamma. You mustn't tremble
like that. I'm holding you tight--tight--little mamma."
"My boy! My little boy! My son! My all! All in their bed together.
Three. Her two. Mine. The smell of clover--my boy--Sammy--Sam--" She
fainted back into his arms suddenly, very white and very quiet and very
shriveled.
He watched beside her bed the next five hours of the night, his face so
close above hers that, when she opened her eyes, his were merged into
one for her, and the clasp of his hand never left hers.
"You all right, ma? Sure? Sure you don't need the doctor?"
She looked up at him with a tired, a burned-out, an ashamed smile. "The
first time in my life, Sammy, such a thing ever happened to me."
He pressed a chain of close kisses to the back of her hand, his voice
far from firm. "It was me, ma. I'll never forgive myself. My little
mamma, my little mamma sweetheart!"
"I feel fine, son; only, with you sitting here all night, you don't let
me sleep for worry that you ain't in bed."
"I love it. I love to sit here by you and watch you sleep.
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