Whistling gaily, Lydia dropped onto the bed next to him and wound her arms about him. Almost dying with embarrassment he mumbled, "Lydia, the light ... you promised."
Grumbling, she switched off the light. Then it began, again.
But this time, right in the middle, a lancing pain unlike anything he had ever experienced shot through his heart. The hurt was so great that he cried out in agony.
Lydia, unknowing, said cheerfully. "Attaboy. That's what I like to hear."
It was only after he gasped, "Don't ... stop ... my heart ... I think I'm going to die ..." that she finally stopped and turned on the light. His face was whiter, much whiter than the grey pillow case under his head. His lips were purple. He still felt what he could only visualize as iron fingers pressing into his heart.
Racing out of bed the girl ran towards the door. She gasped. "I'll call the madame, get a doctor...."
Crouched on the bed in agony, his hand pressing deep into the center of the pain, he was still able to retain the presence of mind to call weakly, "Put on your wrapper, Lydia, you can't go out that way."
Then the pain became so great that he passed out.
When he opened his eyes he was in bed but it was another bed, with crisp white linen on it. The pain, he was grateful to find, had eased up.