'This is the prescription; here are five francs to get it with,' said the doctor, motioning to her not to thank him.
She looked at him with stupefied eyes while he crossed the big cold hospital court to his carriage; she began to cry again when she was alone; gazing on the baby, the prescription in her hand shook—it was so bitter for her to think of having poisoned her son with her milk.
'It must be cholera,' she kept saying to herself, for among Naples common folk stomach disorders are often called cholera.
Dr. Amati shook his head again energetically, as if he had lost confidence altogether in the saving of humanity. As he was opening the carriage door to get in, a woman who had been chattering with the hospital porter came up to speak to him. It was a woman in black, with a nun's shawl, and black silk kerchief on her head, tied under the chin. She had coal-black eyes in a pale face—eyes used to the shade and silence. She spoke very low.
'Sir, would you come with me to do an urgent kindness?'
'I am busy,' the doctor grumbled, getting into his carriage.
'The person is very, very ill.'
'All the people I have to see are ill.'
'She is near here, sir, in the Sacramentiste convent. I was sent to the hospital to find a doctor. I can't go back without one ... she is so very ill....'
'Dr. Caramanna is still up there—ask for him,' Amati retorted. 'Is it a nun that is ill?' he then added.