“Yet you have an appetite. A bad sign. Oh, a very bad sign—for the cocktail market.”
“I’m so tired all the time. And I wake up in the morning with hardly any strength to get out of bed—”
“Or the inclination? Which?” broke in the doctor.
“And my heart gives the queerest jumps and—”
“Thought we’d thrown that symptom-book into the fire. Stand up, please.”
She stood. Dr. Strong noted with satisfaction how, already, the lithe and well-set figure had begun to revert to its natural pose, showing that the muscles were beginning to do their work. He also noted that the hands, hitherto a mere mélange of nervously writhing fingers, hung easily slack.
“Your troubles,” he said pleasantly, “have only just begun. I think you’re strong enough now to begin work.”
“I’m not,” she protested, half weeping. “I feel faint this minute.”
“Good, healthy hunger. Of course, if a glance in your mirror convinces you that you’ve had enough of the treatment—”
Miss Ennis said something under her breath which sounded very much like “Brute!”