“Any castor-oil?”
“A tiny drop.”
“And disinfectants?”
“No.”
“Any soap?”
“Not for two years.”
“Any bandages, cotton wool, surgical dressings?”
“None, sir.”
“My God!” said Dr. Weekes, and it was the first word of dismay that escaped his lips.
In ward after ward they saw the huddled victims of pestilence and famine. Their clothes had not been burnt, like those in the children’s homes, and they were hunting vermin ceaselessly in their sheepskins and rags. It was difficult to give a guess at the age or class of these people. Young girls looked like old women. Young men had the worn, wrinkled look of extreme age. They were all reduced to a dead level of misery and squalor, and dirt; though among them, said Nadia, who spoke with many, were women of education and even of learning. She went about among the beds. Some of the women lying on the boards, raised themselves a little and kissed her hands.