Presently a grizzled and tanned man, wearing a narrow
black tie, came into the room. His face seemed oddly familiar. The nurse
whispered to him. He came up to the bed, and asked me in French how I
felt.
"I don't know at all," said I.
He laughed. "That's a good sign. Let me see how you are getting on."
He stuck a thermometer in my mouth and held my pulse. These formalities
completed, he turned up the bedclothes and did something with my body.
Only then did I realise that I was tightly bandaged. My impressions grew
clearer, and when he raised his face I recognised the doctor who had sat
on the sofa with Anastasius Papadopoulos.
"Nothing could be better," said he. "Keep quiet, and all will be well."
"Will you kindly explain?" I asked.
"You've had an operation. Also a narrow escape."
I smiled at him pityingly. "What is the good of taking all this trouble?
Why are you wasting your time?"
He looked at me uncomprehendingly for a moment, and then he laughed as
the light came to him.
"Oh, I understand! Yes.
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