One was that,
knowing the greys were tricky, he had not forbidden them to Emma long
ago. But he had felt proud of her skill in handling the reins, of the
attention she attracted. Far from thwarting her, he had actually urged
her on. Her fall had been a light one, and at the outset no bad results
were anticipated: a slight haemorrhage was soon got under control. A
week later, however, it began anew, more violently, and then all
remedies were in vain. As it became clear that the child was dead, the
doctors had recourse to serious measures. But the bleeding went on. She
complained of a roaring in her ears, her extremities grew cold, her
pulse fluttered to nothing. She passed from syncope to coma, and from
coma to death. John swore that two of the doctors had been the worse for
drink; the third was one of those ignorant impostors with whom the place
swarmed. And again he made himself reproaches.
"I ought to have gone to look for someone else. But she was dying . . .
I could not tear myself away.--Mahony, I can still see her. They had
stretched her across the bed, so that her head hung over the side. Her
hair swept the floor--one scoundrel trod on it . . . trod on her hair!
And I had to stand by and watch, while they butchered her--butchered my
girl.--Oh, there are things, Mahony, one cannot dwell on and live!"
"You must not look at it like that. Yet, when I recall some of the cases
I've seen contraction induced in . . .
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