She MUST die this evening." "Forgive my persistence," I replied; "but--her temperature has gone down to ninety-nine and a trifle." He pushed away the bacilli in the nearest watch-glass quite angrily.

"To ninety-nine!" he exclaimed, knitting his brows.

"Cumberledge, this is disgraceful! A most disappointing case! A most provoking patient!" "But surely, sir--" I cried.
"Don't talk to ME, boy! Don't attempt to apologise for her.

Such conduct is unpardonable.

She OUGHT to have died.