" But Mr. Smith, nevertheless, ordered me to go home at once, go to
bed, take a pill--I assume, a narcotic--which he gave me, and not to
get up till he had seen me in the morning. I insisted on calling at the
office. I felt able to go on with my work. But at the office, something
in my looks induced them to send a faithful clerk with me in the cab to
our house, Woodland Cottage, Higher Broughton. So he and I went away. I
found afterwards, that some of the clerks said, "We shall never see him
again." But they did--shaky and seedy, as he was, for many a long day.
Well, just as our cab mounted the small hill on which our house stood,
the faithful clerk, with more zeal than discretion, said, "You look
awful ill, sir; why your face is as white as my shirt." I looked at his
shirt, seemingly guiltless, for days past, of the washerwoman.
But I was within three minutes of home: and I was distressed at the
thought of alarming my wife, who was not in a condition to be alarmed.
So, with what little strength I had left, I rubbed my forehead, face,
nose, lips, chin, with my clenched fist, to restore some slight colour.
Entering our door, I said, "I am rather worn out, and will go to bed.
Up all night. Work done. Now, please, I will go to bed.
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