All the windows open."
They rigged up a device of screens and sheets to protect the
bed from the drafts. Fanny obeyed orders silently, like a
soldier. But her eyes went from the face on the pillow to
that of the man bent over the bed. Something vague, cold,
clammy, seemed to be closing itself around her heart. It
was like an icy hand, squeezing there. There had suddenly
sprung up that indefinable atmosphere of the sick-room--a
sick-room in which a fight is being waged. Bottles on the
table, glasses, a spoon, a paper shade over the electric
light globe.
"What is it?" said Fanny, at last. "Grip?--grip?"
Doctor Hertz hesitated a moment. "Pneumonia."
Fanny's hands grasped the footboard tightly. "Do you think
we'd better have a nurse?"
"Yes."
The nurse seemed to be there, somehow, miraculously. And
the morning came. And in the kitchen Annie went about her
work, a little more quietly than usual. And yesterday
seemed far away. It was afternoon; it was twilight. Doctor
Hertz had been there for hours. The last time he
brought another doctor with him--Thorn.
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