The next morning, Samuel Johnson walked downstairs with a handprint staining his face after a night of settling, the mark on his half-swollen face had become even more conspicuous.
Having just returned from her morning exercise and ready to eat breakfast, Mrs. Johnson's heart bled when she saw her son's face swollen like this. She quickly went over and asked, "Samuel, did you not apply a cold compress last night? Why has your face become even more swollen?"
Samuel Johnson wasn't bothered by his "disfigurement." He touched his face, which still hurt intensely, and sniffed around, asking, "Why has there been a continuous making of nourishing soups recently? Why haven't I seen the cook serving us these soups?"
The air had been filled with the scent of medicinal cuisine recently, as if someone was being taken care of.
