Miss Hobbe had passed through, carrying a tray. “My dear child,” she said sharply, with a glance at Miranda’s attire, “what is the matter?”
Miranda, with the receiver to her ear, said, “Influenza, I think.”
“Horrors,” said Miss Hobbe, in a whisper, and the tray wavered in her hands. “Go back to bed at once… go at once.”
“I must talk to Bill first,” Miranda had told her, and Miss Hobbe had hurried on and had not returned. Bill had shouted directions at her, promising everything, doctor, nurse, ambulance, hospital, her check every week as usual, everything, but she was to get back to bed and stay there.
Miranda, with the receiver to her ear, said, “Influenza, I think.”
“Horrors,” said Miss Hobbe, in a whisper, and the tray wavered in her hands. “Go back to bed at once… go at once.”
“I must talk to Bill first,” Miranda had told her, and Miss Hobbe had hurried on and had not returned. Bill had shouted directions at her, promising everything, doctor, nurse, ambulance, hospital, her check every week as usual, everything, but she was to get back to bed and stay there.
Source : ‘Pale Horse, Pale Rider’: A Story of the 1918 Flu Pandemic
