"
"You ain't--mad at me, Sam?"
"Mad! Why, ma, you mustn't ask me a--a thing like that; it just kills me
to hear you. Me that's not even fit to black your shoes! Mad at you?
Why, I--I--Good night--good--night--ma."
* * * * *
At just fifteen minutes before seven, to the pungency of coffee and the
harsh sing of water across the hall, Mrs. Lipkind in a fuzzy wrapper the
color of her eyes and hair, kissed her son awake.
"Sam! Sammy! Get up! _Thu, thu_! I can't get him up in the morning!"
The snuggle away and into the crotch of his elbow.
"Sam-my--quarter to seven!"
He sprang up then, haggard, but in a flood of recollection and remorse.
"Ma, I must 'a' dropped off at the last minute. You all right? What are
you doing up? Go right back! Didn't I tell you not to get up?"
"I been up an hour already; that's how fine I feel. Get up, Sammy; it's
late."
He flung on his robe, trying to withdraw her from the business of
looping back the bed-clothing over the footboard and pounding into
the pillows.
"I tell you I won't have it! You got to lay in bed this morning."
"I'm all right, Sammy. Wouldn't I say so if I wasn't?" But she sat down
rather weakly on the edge of the bed, holding the right side of her,
breathing too hard.
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