“Y’did!”
“Who is ‘Her’?” Rose asked.
The fat woman toppled with knowledge. Mrs. Witherspoon snatched the words from her parting lips.
“The patient in Room Two. They say she was hurt in a bus acci-dent. But thet was Thursday, an’ she ain’t daid yit. The windie shade is always drawed and the nurses acts like she ain’t no sicker then the rest....”
“She’s awful prutty,” the fat woman tried to interrupt.
Mrs. Witherspoon continued:
“Callin’ thim dyin’ patient rooms an’ puttin’ thim ’tween the ward an’ the porch! I ain’t no hosbittle fixer, but it ’pears to me, I’d a put ’em closen onto the nurse’s dest....”
Rose Standish laughed softly.
“For a dying patient, Mrs. Witherspoon, the Head Nursing Office sends a general duty nurse to do ‘special charting’. So dying patients have private nurses. It doesn’t matter where the rooms are.”
“She ain’t got no privett nurse!” the heavy woman hissed.