Precisely at 8:00 A.M. Monday Dr. Marcus Pettijohn and Dr. Duncan Gilder came breezing through the emergency doors of the hospital, laughing. “And so her shoe flew up through the air like an artillery shot, and we were amazed at how high she could kick—” Dr. Pettijohn abruptly stopped talking when they reached the nurses’ station, for he saw Cheney and her haggard face.
Dr. Gilder looked abashed, but then he saw his friend Stephen Varick standing behind Cheney at the filing cabinet, and Stephen looked so exhausted that Duncan wondered if he might have contracted the influenza. “What’s wrong?” he blurted out. Stephen frowned darkly and cut his eyes toward Cheney’s back.
Dr. Pettijohn asked with surprise, “Dr. Duvall, what are you doing here at this hour? Was there some emergency?”
Wearily Cheney answered, “There certainly was. All weekend long, it seemed. Dr. Batson came down with influenza on Friday night, so Dr. Varick and I have been here all weekend. We tried to get in touch with you, Dr. Pettijohn, to ask you to help out. But we couldn’t contact anyone at the address you gave us.”
“Oh, dear, what a coil,” he said with evident deep regret. “I left early Friday because I had to move this weekend. I told Nurse Flagg. Did she forget? My landlord suddenly doubled my rent last week. I believe he’s planning on building attached flats behind to make those horrible tenements. Anyway, I decided to move out into a hotel until I can find another suitable place to live. I am so sorry, Dr. Duvall.” As he spoke, he could see her indignation fade.
She nodded. “I see. Yes, I suppose Mrs. Flagg did forget, but then again, I’m not certain anyone even thought to ask her on Friday about your whereabouts for the weekend because we didn’t know until late Friday night that Dr. Batson was ill. At any rate, Dr. Pettijohn, we would certainly appreciate it if you would leave word on the weekends if you will be available in case of emergency, and where you will be.”
“Certainly,” he agreed.
Cheney waited, and he just smiled at her pleasantly. Finally she ventured, “So you have moved into a hotel, Dr. Pettijohn?”
“Yes, temporarily.”
“And would you mind telling me which one? In case we need to contact you,” Cheney finally said with some discomfort, wondering how the man always managed to unsettle her.
“I’m at the Corinthian,” he answered after a moment’s pause. “I’ll be there, as I said, until I can find a suitable house.”
“Thank you,” Cheney murmured.
“Dr. Duvall, since Dr. Batson is ill, who is going to take the midnight shift?” Dr. Pettijohn asked politely.
“I-I suppose I’ll just stay over until Dr. Batson is recovered,” Cheney said vaguely. She was so tired she hadn’t actually thought about the late shifts during the week.
Dr. Gilder, who had looked hangdog guilty ever since they had come through the door, blurted out, “I’ll stay and work, Dr. Duvall. Stevie and I can bunk up in the lounge and do twelve-and-twelves. Classes are out, you know, for the holidays.”
Cheney said thoughtfully, “That’s very kind of you, Dr. Gilder. And any other time I believe that the two of you, along with Dr. White, of course, could certainly handle anything that comes along. But since we have this awful flu going around, and since we have Mrs. Brownlee and Mr. Reese with very serious cases of septic sore throat, I believe that one of the staff physicians should be here at all times. Dr. Buchanan was here for most of the weekend, but he does have so many other commitments that it’s impossible for him to take an entire shift.”
Dr. Pettijohn had been looking at the occupancy charts, the floor plans showing which rooms were occupied and by whom. “Only ten patients, Dr. Duvall, that’s not such a heavy case load—Oh, wait a minute—” He looked up, his normally guarded eyes shadowed even more cautiously. “Mrs. Green?”
Cheney shook her head, and the gesture clearly illustrated her frustration and her exhaustion. “She died yesterday.”
Dr. Pettijohn looked upset. Cheney thought it was because he was saddened at the loss of a patient, but actually it was because it occurred to him that Victoria Buchanan may not be coming to the hospital quite as often now that her servant had died. Seeing Cheney’s sudden look of understanding and compassion as she watched him, he said softly, “I’m so sorry to hear that. She was so young. I assume Mr. Green was extremely upset. I hope he didn’t cause you any problem, Dr. Duvall?”
Cheney answered, “It devastated him so that he was just crushed and made no difficulties at all. He wouldn’t let us do an autopsy, which was disappointing but not really a surprise.”
Dr. Pettijohn nodded. Then with the air of the man who can solve any problem, he said, “I have a plan, then, Dr. Duvall. I can see that you are exhausted, and now I understand why. Normally you seem to handle on-call weekends easily, but losing a patient, particularly a young person, is debilitating. Now, I assume that you would prefer not to simply trade out next weekend, which I know is your on-call, because that would upset the schedule. And I know that you and Mr. Irons-Winslow were looking forward to having both Christmas weekend and New Year’s weekend off.”
“Well, that is true, Dr. Pettijohn,” Cheney said tentatively. “Dr. Buchanan and I planned to take turns relieving you and Dr. Batson on those weekends, but we have, of course, made many plans for the holidays. I did hate to change the weekend on-call schedule around.”
“I understand completely,” he said lightly. “Besides, it’s only fair for the families to have some vacation time, while us bachelors tough it out with the poor patients who have the misfortune to be ill during the holidays. Anyway, Dr. Duvall, I propose that you take off today and tomorrow and don’t come back until your regular evening shift on Wednesday. I’ll keep all three of the interns here, with three eight-hour shifts for them, and I’ll stay here also. It’ll be a little difficult with all of us here to rest in the doctors’ sitting room, but it can be done.”
Cheney looked surprised. “Why…why, that is exceedingly kind of you, Dr. Pettijohn. Would that be all right with you two?”
“Sure, Dr. Duvall,” Dr. Gilder said, “I feel bad that I wasn’t here to help out this weekend. You could’ve sent for me, Stevie,” he finished reproachfully.
“I know, Duncan,” Dr. Varick said, “but Dr. Duvall and I didn’t really get beat up till yesterday when Mrs. Green died. And that happened so fast, it wouldn’t have helped to call anybody. Besides, Mr. Irons-Winslow was here, and he’s great. Like having an extra doctor. A really good one—er—begging your pardon, Dr. Duvall.”
With a touch of amusement she said, “It doesn’t offend me, Dr. Varick. I know he’s good. So can you stay and help out? If you would, I would certainly not worry as much, taking off for two days.” With emphasis she added, “I have great confidence in you, Dr. Varick. You did exceptionally well this weekend.”
His thin cheeks flushed, and he pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Thank you very much, Dr. Duvall. Of course I’ll stay.”
“Good.” Cheney turned back to Dr. Pettijohn. “I’m going to take you up on your offer, Dr. Pettijohn. I admit I can hardly keep my eyes open, and I think I’m as tired as I’ve ever been. I have one condition, however.”
With sudden wariness he asked, “Yes? And what would that be?”
“I insist that you use the flat above the office instead of trying to grab naps here,” Cheney said firmly. “I just got it stocked with some food and firewood this weekend, and it really helped to have a place to rest quietly and soundly, even if only for an hour or two. It’s so much better than catching snatches of naps in the doctors’ sitting room.”
Dr. Pettijohn’s blue eyes sparkled. That’s how Batson got in the clique, he thought with satisfaction. He was just a nobody tagging along with Dr. Buchanan, like me, but they let him bunk upstairs in that flat, and the next thing he knew, he was their partner and was buying his own house. I’ll bet I can get in the roses with Buchanan and even Miss Hoi-polloi Duvall a lot faster than that moron Batson did. Now this is the beginning of a very fine new plan, for my new life!
“That’s exceedingly generous of you, Dr. Duvall. I accept.”
****
By eleven-thirty that night Dr. Marcus Pettijohn’s enthusiasm was considerably diminished. The morning had been busy because, instead of a few patients with assorted injuries and in different stages of recovery from illnesses, he had five patients in the throes of the most infectious and febrile stages of influenza and two patients with septic sore throat, a serious illness. Mrs. Brownlee and his own patient William Reese and all of the flu patients had required constant monitoring, and Marcus had been obliged to use his luncheon and dinner hours to sit with Mevrouw de Sille to earn his expensive personal consultation fee.
And the dispensary had been as busy as a hornet’s nest, with an endless stream of women and children and old people, most of them with influenza. The hours for the dispensary were supposed to be from noon until six, but people had kept coming in until almost eight o’clock. Then it had started sleeting, and three accident victims had come in to emergency. One was an elderly man named Withers who had fallen and broken his hip. Marcus had admitted him, simply giving him heroic doses of laudanum until Dr. Buchanan could deal with him in the morning.
The other accident victims were a couple named Bloom whose farm cart had overturned. They both had bruises and minor cuts to be stitched up. The Blooms were still in beds in the clinic’s cubicles, for there were no cabs or hacks available during the ice storm. Marcus had told them that they could stay until morning.
He came out of the couple’s cubicle and saw Carlie coming down the hallway with an armload of firewood. Carlie was good about keeping all of the fires stoked, just as he was good about keeping the supply closets and carts stocked. Marcus thought with some impatience, Just one attendant at night, and he’s an idiot. And when one doctor gets sick, it throws everyone into a spin. We’re definitely understaffed, and I’m going to talk to Victoria about it. Maybe if I put it to her right, she would see that Buchanan doesn’t need to be chief physician—that it needs to be someone who can at least work a regular shift, someone who doesn’t have other outside distractions…someone like me.
“Carlie, where’s Dr. Varick?” he asked, following the boy to the stove to huddle by it a moment and warm his hands.
“He just finished seeing to the gents,” Carlie answered as he fed the stove a couple of logs, then stoked it until the fire roared like a hungry animal. “He was going to the doctors’ room to drink some tea. I made tea, Dr. Pettijohn. You want some? I make good tea, Dr. Duvall says.”
“Does she? I think I will have a cup before I go. Anyway, Carlie, I’ve let the three people who came in after it started sleeting stay in the clinic for the night. Mr. Withers is in six, and Mr. and Mrs. Bloom are in four and five. Go get them some extra blankets. And we’re running short of laudanum. Restock both of the supply carts.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pettijohn went up the hall, rubbing the back of his neck, thinking that a hot cup of tea before going to bed would be just the thing. Dr. Varick and Dr. Gilder could surely handle the rest of the night, and Dr. White, as useless as she was, could at least look as if she were monitoring patients.
The emergency doors banged open, blown back by a howling wind that shot ice into the hallway so hard it felt like gravel on Marcus’s face. Cursing, he scurried to slam the doors shut behind the three huddled figures coming in.
“Who—” He rounded on them and saw that it was Officer Goodin, so he swallowed his anger. “Oh, hello, Officer Goodin,” he said, still with a touch of impatience. “I didn’t think anyone would be out in this tempest tonight.”
“I’ve got to be out in it, like it or no.”
Officer Goodin addressed him in a tone that Marcus thought was patronizing and insulting. The policeman made him uncomfortable, and Marcus was convinced that it was because he was a religious fanatic and full of self-righteousness.
“But these two, now, don’t have to be out there. I was going to just take them home, but it looks to me like Miss Wilhelmina here needs some medical attention. And I didn’t hardly like to leave Miss Geraldine alone.” Two women were huddled close to the tall policeman, shivering, their heads down with scarves pulled close over their faces.
“All right, come along then,” Marcus muttered. He turned and went back down the hall, meeting Carlie. “I’ve got two more, Carlie, so hurry up with the laudanum.”
“Yes, sir,” he said and started limping along as fast as he could.
Officer Goodin was holding one woman’s arm. She leaned on him, swaying, barely able to walk.
“Put her in here,” Marcus ordered. “And the other one? She’s sick?” The woman was just a figure in a man’s gray wool overcoat that was much too big for her. The sleeves came down far over her hands, and the hem dragged at least four inches on the floor.
“She’s in the family way,” Officer Goodin said. “Any minute now, it looks to me. But it’s kind of hard to tell because she’s such a little mite. Geraldine? C’mon, girl, just get yourself up on that bed while I get Wilhelmina situated. Don’t worry. The doctor will see to the both of you.”
Marcus helped her get seated on the bed, and finally she looked up at him. She looked vaguely familiar—she had a heart-shaped face, rather prominent front teeth that hadn’t yet rotted out and big dark smudges of eyes—but Marcus couldn’t remember the circumstances.
Officer Goodin, meanwhile, was saying in a gentle murmur, “Now, Wilhelmina, I know you’re hurting, but you need to let the doctor see this arm. You drinking that rotgut gin isn’t going to heal this up. Here, I’ll help you.”
The woman was crying, a slow steady monotone of moans punctuated by snorts and sniffles. The policeman helped her take off her coat, but when he peeled one of the sleeves off, she yelped sharply. “Oh, that burns like fire. It hurts worsen than when I done it, Policeman Preach!”
“I know, I know, Wil, but Dr. Pettijohn will help you,” he said kindly. “Here, now you just sit down and let him see this arm.”
Now that her heavy outer coat was off, Marcus could see that she was a short, squat woman with oddly colored brown hair shot with bright red streaks, a half-hearted henna treatment. A stench rose from her that made Marcus’s stomach heave. She held up her right arm and squinted up at him. “I ’member you. You’re the doc that bandaged this arm up the night I got set afire like, by Ruthie and Walt. Well, I’d say your doctorin’ didn’t help me much, now did it, my fine pretty boy?”
Marcus frowned and made himself look at her arm, though he couldn’t begin to make himself touch it. Obviously she had been burned, and gangrene had set in. Her entire forearm was swollen, the skin around the raw burnt places turning black.
Officer Goodin asked heavily, “You attended her when she got burnt, did you, Dr. Pettijohn?”
“I have no idea,” he answered, turning up the gas lamp over the bed and gingerly taking Wilhelmina’s finger and pulling it so she lifted her arm up closer to the light. “But I can see that this happened some time ago, and if I did attend you, I’m sure I told you to come back in to change the dressing.”
She shrugged. “Maybe. Me and Geraldine was pretty tipsy-topsy that night. I barely ’member it. Do you ’member it, Gerry?”
“All I ’member,” the little girl—for Geraldine was only eighteen—said, “was that nice tall handsome man. He picked me up and set me on the bed ’cause I couldn’t hardly climb up by myself.” She was so small that her feet didn’t touch the floor as she sat on the edge of the bed. She swung them back and forth like a child.
Marcus, his girlish features twisted with barely concealed disgust, turned Wilhelmina’s arm this way and that. It was with a supreme effort he could even stay in the room, the sour smell of infection was so strong. Now he could see that the woman was burning with fever, and she was only barely conscious. Her eyes were heavy lidded, and her voice was slurred.
“All right. Lie down, please,” he directed. “And Miss—what did you say your name was?”
“That’s Miss Geraldine,” Officer Goodin said pointedly. “And this is Miss Wilhelmina.”
Marcus shrugged. “Geraldine, you lie down too. I doubt you’ll be going anywhere tonight.” He looked up at the policeman. “You aren’t staying here, are you, Officer Goodin? I mean, I assume you have other responsibilities besides babying streetwalkers.”
“So I do,” he answered evenly. “But I’d like to ask you a question or two before I leave, Dr. Pettijohn.”
“Surely.” He led the policeman out and down the hall, out of earshot of the occupied cubicles.
“What about her arm?” Officer Goodin asked, frowning. “It looks real bad to me.”
“It is. It’s gangrenous,” Marcus said shortly.
The policeman sighed. “I thought so. I’ve smelled that before. It’s hard to mistake and hard to forget. Will she lose it?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to do it tonight?”
“No. I’m going to let Dr. Buchanan do it. He’s our chief of surgery. Besides, I don’t have the necessary staff to do it tonight,” he added with some inspiration. Marcus didn’t want to do the amputation. He was no barber-surgeon. He was a physician, trained in Paris at L’Hôpital de la Charité, and he was not about to chop off some sniveling whore’s rotting arm.
Officer Goodin was looking down at him with a carefully guarded expression, but Marcus thought uncomfortably that the man must know something of his thoughts and was staring at him with disdain. “Will there be anything else?” Marcus demanded impatiently.
“Yes, sir. I would like to ask if you’re going to let them stay the night,” he said politely. “They were out shiverin’ on a street corner, and not a soul out tonight anyways, including hackney cabs nor hansoms either. I had to walk them here, but I don’t think they’d make it trying to walk back. They’ve got a room at Miss Fancy’s boardinghouse, but that’s eight blocks over.”
Marcus shrugged carelessly. “Dr. Buchanan won’t be in until tomorrow. I suppose the other one can stay too.”
“Her name’s Geraldine, Dr. Pettijohn,” Officer Goodin said with emphasis. “And Wilhelmina’s got the hurt arm.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
“No, sir, not for now.” Officer Goodin put his flat cap back on securely, then wound a woolen scarf over it and around his neck. “I’ll be back, though, to check on the two of them tomorrow.”
“I will see to them, Officer Goodin,” Marcus said frigidly. “Good night.” Having lost all patience with the policeman, who talked and moved as slowly as Carlie, he finally just walked away from him, marching up the hallway and around the corner.
Officer Goodin followed, pulling on his gloves and steeling himself to face the maelstrom outside. He opened the emergency room doors, took a deep breath, put his head down, and disappeared into the night.
****
Marcus Pettijohn’s eyes popped open, and he jerked upright, looking around in alarm. He had forgotten where he was, and the sight of the unfamiliar room had frightened him for a moment. Then he recalled that he was upstairs in the comfortable flat above the partnership’s offices. With a sigh of relief he rubbed his face, then stood and stretched. The fire in the bedroom was dying down, and he stared at it for a moment, considering.
All right, I’ve got to get this straight and get it right. Victoria may be sophisticated, but she is definitely a bleeding heart. The policeman is good friends with Dr. Duvall, and Victoria certainly respects Dr. Duvall. One day she’ll respect me, she’ll look up to me, she’ll lean on me….
His thoughts angled off into a fuzzy but triumphant dream until, with an effort, he brought them back to the subject at hand. Still staring at the fire with a blankness that might have been chilling to an observer, he murmured, “The whores…they are just the kind of hopeless charity case that Dr. Duvall loves to fuss over…and Victoria would so admire her for her noble dedication. And like a fool, I gave them to Varick!”
He began to get dressed.
It had been almost twelve-thirty by the time he had escaped to the office—soon his new flat, he hoped. He had been so excited to see it. It was more elegantly furnished than any place he had ever even hoped to have. Once he studied the fine overstuffed velvet sofas and settees, the masculine leather armchairs, the mahogany and walnut tables, the fine china in the kitchen, he realized that Victoria must have furnished the place after Cleve Batson had moved out. The thought so excited him that he could hardly settle down to sleep. He had walked around and around the four rooms, handling everything, sitting on each piece of furniture, searching through the secretary in the parlor to see if there were any personal notes or letters, checking every cabinet and shelf and cupboard in the kitchen and bath to see if there was anything at all of a personal nature. There was not. Even the soap and towels and toiletries in the bath were untouched. Marcus knew that Cheney and Shiloh had stayed the weekend, but Mrs. Underwood, who cleaned the hospital and was the laundress, must have cleaned the flat that day. Still, the place did have a certain aura of elegance and cool comfort that Marcus connected with Victoria Buchanan.
Consequently, when he finally did lie down, he didn’t go into a deep sleep. His mind was wandering, dipping in and out of sleep as one dips below the surface of a still pond when swimming and then glides back up to sunlight and air. The realization that the two women, Wilhelmina and Geraldine, might give him an opportunity to make yet another connection to Victoria had just drifted into his stream of consciousness. As soon as he had crystallized the thought, he bolted upright. Now, as he hurriedly buttoned up his coverall, he thought, I can keep them in the clinic tonight, but tomorrow morning I can send a message to Victoria that I have two charity patients I’d like to admit, and I’d like to consult with her about the finances. Yes, that will work!
Exultantly he hurried back to the hospital. It was only three-thirty in the morning. There was actually nothing much to be done with the women tonight, but he did have to make some excuse to take them on as his patients.
The sleet had stopped, but the wind still blew, hard and icy, tearing at him, snatching his breath from his nostrils and icily burning his throat as he struggled to breathe the arctic air. By the time he reached the hospital, his eyes were streaming and the tips of his fingers already felt numb. He yanked open the heavy double doors of the emergency entrance, gratefully feeling the moist warm air envelop him.
Then he coughed, even gagged, a little. He could smell that awful woman’s arm, even all the way up the hall. And she was crying in that tiresome monotonous snort and sob that made Marcus want to shake her. Still, he set his shoulders and swallowed down his disgust, for now he knew his course of action. His plan was made.
Carlie was coming out of Wilhelmina’s cubicle, holding a basin, with soiled linens over his arm. “They washed up, Miss Wilhelmina and Miss Geraldine did,” he said in his plodding way. “Do I give them gowns, Dr. Pettijohn? Dr. Varick said not, but their dresses are pretty dirty.”
“Yes, go get them gowns, Carlie,” he said, yanking open the curtains. Dr. Varick was unwinding a long linen bandage that was looped lightly over Wilhelmina’s infected arm. Her face and hand did look clean, but she was still wearing the same purple dress—now Marcus remembered it, for it still had charred marks on the right side of it—and clutched a filthy shawl about her shoulders. Dr. Varick said, “Oh, hello, Dr. Pettijohn. Couldn’t you sleep? I was just checking this dressing.”
“I’ll do it,” he said brusquely. “Ma’am, please stop crying. You’re disturbing the other patients.”
“I can’t help it,” she said, sniffing. “I’m telling you, Doctor, this arm hurts something fierce. It feels like it’s on fire, all the way up to my shoulder. I hurt and ache all over, something awful. And can’t keep down a thing, not a blessed thing.”
Marcus made himself sound polite. “I know, Wilhelmina. You have a bad infection, and that is going to make you feel very ill. I was just thinking about it, and I believe I need to admit you. And you too, Geraldine. I’m going to examine you, but I think you probably have influenza. You sound hoarse and congested.”
“I guess so,” Geraldine said wearily. “I been so cold for so long I can’t tell if I’m froze or thawed.”
Wilhelmina, through her tears, cackled a little. “Ain’t she something, though? Game little chicken. Anyways, Gerry, didn’t you hear the doc? He’s gonna admit us, so we’ll be staying here awhile. Beats that cold old hole at Meg Fancy’s, don’t it? Swells stays here, they do. I seen ’em. We’ll be swells, Gerry, for a day or two. We’ll just pretend we’re swells.”
“You do that,” Marcus said dryly. “Dr. Varick, you’ve done fine, but on second thought I’ll take over their care. I’d have to be the admitting physician anyway. Thank you.” He effectively elbowed Stephen aside. “Tell Carlie to bring the supply cart down, please. That will be all.”
Stephen left with a shrug and gave the message to Carlie.
The emergency department was equipped with two three-tiered rolling carts that had all of the supplies, except surgical instruments, that were usually needed for either the dispensary or the emergency room. Carlie checked them over and over again when he was on shift. He had already checked them three times that night, but he stood in front of one of them and under his breath said the names of the supplies and drugs as he looked at each item. When he was satisfied that Dr. Pettijohn would find no fault, he rolled the cart down the hallway. The curtains to Wilhelmina’s cubicle were open, so Carlie stood still and watched Dr. Pettijohn finish dabbing Wilhelmina’s arm with sweet oil and then wrap it.
Impatiently Dr. Pettijohn motioned to Carlie. “Here, roll it on in here, Carlie.”
He rolled it in. Dr. Pettijohn poured an enormous dosage of laudanum into a glass and thrust it toward Wilhelmina. “Here, this will help you sleep. At least, I hope it will, so maybe my other patients can sleep too.” He went to Geraldine’s bed and threw the covers down. “I’m going to look you over, Geraldine, and make sure this baby’s all right,” he said with frigid politeness.
Carlie stood stock-still, shocked. Dr. Pettijohn had moved from touching Wilhelmina’s infected arm to examining another patient. He hadn’t washed in the carbolic acid basin on the cart.
Carlie had often seen Dr. Pettijohn make just a cursory wave through the carbolic acid stands in the ward, and he had seen him neglect to wash altogether on busy nights in the emergency room. But this time even Carlie could see that Wilhelmina’s arm was unclean. He wondered if Dr. Pettijohn had just forgotten. But with a sigh, he knew he couldn’t—shouldn’t—try to correct a doctor. Doctors knew a lot more than he did.
Marcus had just shoved the glass of laudanum into Wilhelmina’s left hand, so she was struggling to sit up to drink it. Carlie noticed her difficulty and hurried to help her sit up, sliding his arm under her shoulders and propping her up. She drank, then smacked her lips. “Mmm-mm. That’s good whiskey, even if it is raw! I never cared for that refined stuff, anyways—”
“That is laudanum, madam,” Marcus snapped without turning.
Wilhelmina and Carlie exchanged half-frightened looks. “Yes, sir,” she said, suddenly weary. “If you say so.” Gently Carlie laid her back down and took the glass from her. He put it into a covered pot on the bottom of the cart.
Then furtively, his eyes darting warily toward Marcus’s back, he scrubbed his hands for long minutes in the basin of carbolic acid.