The wrist was thin and wasted.

The face, too, I noticed, had fallen away greatly.

It was clear that the malignant fever which accompanies the disease had wreaked its worst on him.

So weak and ill was he, indeed, that he let me hold his hand, with my fingers on his pulse, for half a minute or more without ever opening his eyes or displaying the slightest curiosity at my presence.

One might have thought that European doctors abounded in Nepaul, and that I had been attending him for a week, with "the mixture as before" at every visit.
"Your pulse is weak and very rapid," I said slowly, in a professional tone.