He remembered the woman, sickly from other treatment. He'd been forced
to remove her inflamed tonsils a few months before. She'd whined and
complained because he couldn't spend all his time attending her. She was
a nag, a shrew, and a totally selfish woman. But that was her husband's
worry, not his.
He dashed into the little house when they reached Einstein, and his
first glance confirmed what George Lynn had said. The woman was sick,
all right. She was running a high fever. Much too high.
She began whining and protesting at his having taken so long, but the
pain soon forced her to stop.
"There may still be a chance," Doc told her husband brusquely. He threw
the cleanest sheet onto a table and shoved it under the single light.
"Keep out of the way--in the other room, if you can all pile in there.
This isn't exactly aseptic, anyhow. You can boil a lot of water, if you
want to help."
It would give them something to do and he could use the water to clean
up. There was no time to wait for it, however. He had to sterilize with
alcohol and carbolic acid, and hope. He bent over the woman, ripping her
thin gown across to make room for the operation.
Then he swore.
Across her abdomen was the unhealed wound of a previous operation.
They'd worked on her at Southport. They must have removed the appendix
and then been shocked by the signs of infection.
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