"Evgenii," he gasped, "why say that? God have you in his keeping! It is merely that you have caught a chill."
"Come, come!" interrupted Bazarov, but in the same dragging tone as before. "It is useless to talk like that to a doctor. All the signs of infection are present. That you know for yourself."
"But—but where are the signs of—of infection?"
"Look at these. What do they mean?"
And Bazarov pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. What he showed his father was a number of red, angry-looking patches that were coming into view.
Vasili Ivanitch started and turned cold with fear. At length he contrived to stammer out:
"Yet—even supposing that, that there should be anything in the nature of infection——"
"Of pyæmia, you mean," the son prompted.
"Anything in the nature of epidemic infec——"
"Of pyæmia, I repeat," grimly, insistently corrected Bazarov. "Have you forgotten your textbooks?"