illuminated porcelain. Her hands lay upon her lap, her needlework slipped
from them; and as it fell to the ground she awoke.

She pressed her hands against her forehead and made an effort to rouse
herself. As she did so, her face contracted with an expression of disgust,
and she remembered the ether. The soft, vaporous odour drifted towards her
from a small table strewn with medicine bottles, and taking care to hold
the cork tightly in her fingers she squeezed it into the bottle.

At that moment the clock struck eleven and the clear tones of its bell
broke the silence sharply; the patient moaned as if in reply, and his thin
hairy arms stirred feverishly on the wide patchwork counterpane. She took
them in her hands and covered them over; she tried to arrange the pillows
more comfortably, but as she did so he turned and tossed impatiently, and,
fearing to disturb him, she put back the handkerchief she had taken from
the pillow to wipe the sweat from his brow, and regaining her chair, with a
weary movement she picked up the cloth that had fallen from her knees and
slowly continued her work.

It was a piece of patchwork like the counterpane on the bed; the squares of
a chessboard had been taken as a design, and, selecting a fragment of
stuff, she trimmed it into the required shape and sewed it into its
allotted corner.

Nothing was now heard but the methodical click of her needle as it struck
the head of her thimble, and then the long swish of the thread as she drew
it through the cloth. The lamp at her elbow burned steadily, and the glare
glanced along her arm as she raised it with the large movement of sewing.

Her hair was blue wherever the light touched it, and it encircled the white