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came every day. It was a wearisome, tiring wait. Dr. Simons had indeed anticipated trouble, for there was not the slightest sign of climax.

The hot spell held out with admirable strength. The little apartment, so close to the roof, discharged tiny points of heat. Eddie spoke of an electric fan, but Dot discouraged him. Though he could get a fan very cheap there was still the electric bill to consider.

These last days were raw torture—the heat, the tedium of waiting passively for something to happen, her body huge, uncomfortable, heavy.

She spent most of her time now on the bed. The sheet would grow burning hot beneath her. She would leave it and go to lie for a while in cool water. She would powder herself from head to foot with Mavis talcum and try the bed again.

Eddie brought in the dinner things, salads, usually, or sandwiches. Dr. Stewart had permitted Dot to forsake her diet. It was too late now for the baby to be influenced to any extent. She ate ravenously. Everything carried an aura of rarity about it. The tomatoes were lusciously scarlet; the crinkling, green leaves of lettuce seemed strange fairy fruit, perfect, desirable.

The evenings brought ice cream and Nabiscos. Dot allowed the ice cream to dissolve on her tongue. She counted the Nabiscos. A shortage made her glad that Eddie didn't like them. They went no more to the movies, nor did they walk in the evenings. There was nothing to do but wait. The ice cream made an exciting interlude, something to look forward to.