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68. CHAPTER LXVIII (continued)
Griffiths shook out his pillow for him, deftly smoothed down the bedclothes, and tucked him up. He went into Philip's sitting-room to look for a siphon, could not find one, and fetched it from his own room. He drew down the blind.
"Now, go to sleep and I'll bring the old man round as soon as he's done the wards."
It seemed hours before anyone came to Philip. His head felt as if it would split, anguish rent his limbs, and he was afraid he was going to cry. Then there was a knock at the door and Griffiths, healthy, strong, and cheerful, came in.
"Here's Doctor Deacon," he said.
The physician stepped forward, an elderly man with a bland manner, whom Philip knew only by sight. A few questions, a brief examination, and the diagnosis.
"What d'you make it?" he asked Griffiths, smiling.
Doctor Deacon looked round the dingy lodging-house room.
"Wouldn't you like to go to the hospital? They'll put you in a private ward, and you can be better looked after than you can here."
"I'd rather stay where I am," said Philip.
He did not want to be disturbed, and he was always shy of new surroundings. He did not fancy nurses fussing about him, and the dreary cleanliness of the hospital.
"I can look after him, sir," said Griffiths at once.
"Oh, very well."
He wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and left.
"Now you've got to do exactly as I tell you," said Griffiths. "I'm day-nurse and night-nurse all in one."
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