“No,” said Aaron abruptly. “You can send me to the hospital. I'm nothing but a piece of carrion.”
“Carrion!” said Lilly. “Why?”
“I know it. I feel like it.”
“Oh, that's only the sort of nauseated feeling you get with flu.”
“I'm only fit to be thrown underground, and made an end of. I can't stand myself—”
He had a ghastly, grey look of self-repulsion.
“It's the germ that makes you feel like that,” said Lilly. “It poisons the system for a time. But you'll work it off.”
At evening he was no better, the fever was still high. Yet there were no complications—except that the heart was irregular.
“The one thing I wonder,” said Lilly, “is whether you hadn't better be moved out of the noise of the market. It's fearful for you in the early morning.”
“It makes no difference to me,” said Aaron.