Nutter's door.
'Oh, Madam, 'twill all come right, be sure,' said Toole, uncomfortably,
responding to a vehement and rambling appeal of poor Mrs. Nutter's.
'And do you _really_ think it will? Oh, doctor, doctor, _do_ you think
it will? The last two or three nights and days--how many is it?--oh, my
poor head--it seems like a month since he went away.'
'And where do you think he is? Do you think it's business?'
'Of course 'tis business, Ma'am.'
'And--and--oh, doctor!--you really think he's safe?'
'Of _course_, Madam, he's safe--what's to ail him?'
And Toole rummaged amongst the old medicine phials on the chimneypiece,
turning their labels round and round, but neither seeing them nor
thinking about them, and only muttering to himself with, I'm sorry to
say, a curse here and there.
'You see, my dear Ma'am, you must keep yourself as quiet as you can, or
physic's thrown away upon you; you really must,' said Toole.
'But doctor,' pleaded the poor lady, 'you don't know--I--I'm
terrified--I--I--I'll never be the same again,' and she burst into
hysterical crying.
'Now, really, Madam--confound it--my dear, good lady--you see--this will
never do'--he was uncorking and smelling at the bottles in search of
'the drops'--'and--and--here they are--and isn't it better, Ma'am, you
should be well and hearty--here drink this--when--when he comes
back--don't you see--than--a--a--'
'But--oh, I wish I could tell you.
Pages:
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520