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Book, page 121 / 370 had bad dreams. Lilly got up to give him drinks. The din in the market was terrific before dawn, and Aaron suffered bitterly. In the morning he was worse. The doctor gave him injections against pneumonia. "You wouldn't like me to wire to your wife?" said Lilly. "No," said Aaron abruptly. "You can send me to the hospital. I'm nothing but a piece of carrion." "Carrion!" said Lilly. "Why?" "I know it. I feel like it." "Oh, that's only the sort of nauseated feeling you get with flu." "I'm only fit to be thrown underground, and made an end of. I can't stand myself--" He had a ghastly, grey look of self-repulsion. "It's the germ that makes you feel like that," said Lilly. "It poisons the system for a time. But you'll work it off." At evening he was no better, the fever was still high. Yet there were no complications--except that the heart was irregular. "The one thing I wonder," said Lilly, "is whether you hadn't better be moved out of the noise of the market. It's fearful for you in the early morning." "It makes no difference to me," said Aaron. The next day he was a little worse, if anything. The doctor knew there was nothing to be done. At evening he gave the patient a calomel pill. It was rather strong, and Aaron had a bad time. His burning, parched, poisoned inside was twisted and torn. Meanwhile carts banged, porters shouted, all the hell of the market went on outside, away down on the cobble setts. But this time the two men
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