"Bad news," said the doctor. "Your heart's been strained almost to bursting. It's working on will power, Mr. Monk; hardly anything else."
"Get to the point!" Monk shouted.
"That is the point," Rostov said stiffly. "You have a serious heart condition. A dangerous condition. You've ignored eight years of my advice, and now your heart is showing the effects."
"What can it do to me?"
"Kill you," said the doctor bluntly. "Frankly, I can't even promise that the usual precautions will do any good. But we have no other choice than to take them. The human body is a miraculous affair, and even the most desperate damages sometimes can't prevent it from going on living. But I won't mince words with you, Mr. Monk. You're a direct sort of person, so I'm telling you directly. Your chances are slim."
Monk sat down and put his black tie on distractedly. He sat deep in thought for a while, and then said:
"How much would it cost to fix it?"
"What?"
"Money!" the big man cried. "How much money would it take to get me repaired?"
"But it's not a matter of money—"