Beside Clarissa, Allen pushed himself up onto one elbow. She felt a terrible shame at her nakedness, at her absorption with her own pleasure, and struggled to cover herself with the sheets. Allen poured them all wine. “What the devil do you mean, March?” March continued, “The problem, apparently, is my heart—a flaw in its construction, something that hitherto has not inconvenienced me at all, until now. My physician orders me a lowering diet and forbids me any sort of exertion if I wish to live.” A drop of red wine fell from Clarissa’s glass to the sheet. Stupidly she watched the red bloom and spread among the interlaced fibers. Someone—she thought it must have been Allen—took the glass from her hand. She heard the small click as the glass was placed on a solid surface. March continued, “I wish I could say I was sufficiently heroic to laugh in the face of death and continue as I live now. Unfortunately, that is not my choice. I have a child for whom I am responsible and, for her sake, I must keep alive.
