Mrs Peters turned away with the meek expression habitual to her. Poll and the chemist found themselves alone.
“Now, sir,” she said, “I know you has found out what’s up with me, but I don’t want it talked over. Words won’t mend it. Ef that stuff you sell is good for pain like mine I’ll pay yer for a bottle o’ it, and there’s an end of the matter.”
“The medicine I sell is good for a great many things, but it won’t reach your pain. There is only one thing for you to do, my poor woman.”
“Thank you, sir, I know that.”
“Then you are going—”
“To the public-house round the corner? Yes, sir.”
“Good heavens! how dreadful! The ease you get from drink only aggravates your suffering afterwards. It promotes fever, and undermines your strength.”
“I’d give a deal this minute for three or four hours’ ease,” said Poll. “I’d drink a power of gin to get the ease, whether it were right or wrong.”
“Look here,” said the chemist. “I’ll give you something to give you relief for the night. You can take it away with you, and when you drink it you will sleep sound, and your pain will go. To-morrow you must go into a hospital; you can be cured there—cured, I say.”
Poll laughed discordantly.