Krauss, great heavy man that he was, was now trembling so violently that he was obliged to lean against the wall for support, and, pointing to the bed, he said:
“I had not the slightest suspicion—Gott bewahre, I had not. I thought her ailment was neuralgia. I will pay any money, no matter what fee. Surely, you can do something for her?”
“I am afraid not; Mrs. Krauss is beyond help, and can never recover consciousness. She has been taking quantities of the drug for a long time. Look at her arm!”—turning back the sleeve and revealing an emaciated tell-tale limb.
“Did you know?” said Krauss, appealing to Sophy, who stood at the other side of the bed. The words came in short savage jerks.
“Yes,” she replied, “I only discovered it six weeks ago.”
“And never told me!” glaring at her with a furious expression.
“No—because Aunt Flora implored me to be silent. I was doing my best to stop it and minimising the doses.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the doctor, “that accounts for this. She has been starved and, with the cunning of these morphia maniacs, found means to get a supply, and has absorbed an enormous quantity.”
“Ach Gott! it seems incredible,” moaned Krauss, now rising and coming towards the bed, and lifting his wife’s limp hand. “What could have made her take to it?”
“Illness—loneliness—depression; this enervating climate; having nothing particular to do; an idle woman of forty has no business in Burma.”