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grumbling to send for the doctor, and before the pain was at its height he was in the room. The bitter-sweet smell of the amyl told him what had been already done. What little more he could do brought her no relief. He took out the case he always carried, hesitated, and chose a small bottle.

"Get me some hot water," he said, to Stevens.

"Morphia?" she gasped.


"Put it away."

"Because it failed once is no reason it should fail again."

"I'm in…I'm in…agony."

"I know."

"And there's no hope."

"Oh, yes, you'll get through this."

"I don't want to…only not to suffer. Remember, you promised." He pretended not to hear, busying himself about her.

"He has gone. I've stopped the cheque. Peter…" The pain rose, her voice with it, then collapsed; it was dreadful to see her.

"Help me…give me the hyoscine," she said faintly. His hand shook, his face was ashen. "I can't bear this…you promised." The agony broke over her again. He poured down brandy, but it might have been water. His heart was wrung, and drops of perspiration formed upon his forehead. She pleaded to him in that faint voice, then was