The muddy banks of the Canadian were covered with hailstones, and so were the plains around them. Clara herself didn't try to touch or change Lorena's grief--it was like Martin's fever: either it would kill her or it wouldn't. Roscoe had once seen him lift an anvil down at the blacksmith's shop, and he had just been a boy then. Then he couldn't help noticing it, for there was nothing else to notice.
The baby took a sneezing fit and Lorena was afraid she had done something wrong, but Clara merely laughed at her anxiety and the child soon settled down. He carried his plate to the sink and thanked Clara for the meal. It's better than hen's eggs. Otherwise you'll start to take a leak some morning and your pecker will come right off in your hand.
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