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Show 3/S winters previously when she had slipped on ice and wrenched her back. She liked to tell the story of how the short man had tadped her ribs, she standing with arms upraised while he wound the tape around and around her torso, under her breasts, which were about eye-level for the man. He told her he had practiced in Europe before Hitler, how originally he had been trained as a psychoanalyst, had practiced as one in Europe and for a time here, then had stopped and hdd gone into general practice because he could no longer bear listening to all the kooks. He got too unhappy. Now he was happy, he said, looking Amelia's breasts in the eye. When Amelia asked him if she should diet he told her to leave her figure alone (glancing at it appreciatively), to work.and play hard and to forget herself, that Vogue stick-figure glamor was not only unhealthy but unesthetic as well, less a fad than a perversion. There, he said, patting her shoulder, put your clothes back on and go cheer up the world. How much, I worried, did a psychoanalyst know about sprains and bumps on the head? Kite saying goodby to him sounded cheerful, and the man went right to his coat, wasting no time. I caught him there with my questions: probably a mild concussion in her head, certainly a slight sprain in her ankle, n.'-thing to worry about. Plenty of rest for the head, tape to keep the ankle immobile. She was to keep off that foot for a few days. Get the throw rugs off the bathroom floor and the diningroom floor; she could trip on those and really hurt herself. "She can have aspirin?" "Absolutely. Give her aspirin. Why not? It'll make her feel better." He was* into his coat and putting on his hat, and now he picked up his bag and walked to the door. I followed him outside: he seemed sensible, he radiated assurance and I wanted all I could get. Tiiank you, thank you, Doctor. He was looking down the stairs, then turning back to me. "This is where she tumbled? Nothing wrong with the carpet?" "I don't know. I don't think so." |