The next day he was a little worse, if anything. The doctor knew there was nothing to be done. At evening he gave the patient a calomel pill. It was rather strong, and Aaron had a bad time. His burning, parched, poisoned inside was twisted and torn. Meanwhile carts banged, porters shouted, all the hell of the market went on outside, away down on the cobble setts. But this time the two men did not hear.
“You'll feel better now,” said Lilly, “after the operation.”
“It's done me harm,” cried Aaron fretfully. “Send me to the hospital, or you'll repent it. Get rid of me in time.”
“Nay,” said Lilly. “You get better. Damn it, you're only one among a million.”
Again over Aaron's face went the ghastly grimace of self-repulsion.
“My soul's gone rotten,” he said.
“No,” said Lilly. “Only toxin in the blood.”
Next day the patient seemed worse, and the heart more irregular. He rested badly. So far, Lilly had got a fair night's rest. Now Aaron was not sleeping, and he seemed to struggle in the bed.
“Keep your courage up, man,” said the doctor sharply. “You give way.”
Aaron looked at him blackly, and did not answer.