It's her right hand, too, and she can't afford to lose the use of it, not being a great, hulking, lazy, lolloping man.

So you had better go and put some stuff on it." With this advice, Miss Oman whisked to the right-about and vanished into the depths of the cavern like the Witch of Wokey, while I hurried on to the surgery to provide myself with the necessary instruments and materials, and thence proceeded to Nevill's Court.
Miss Oman's juvenile maid-servant, who opened the door to me, stated the existing conditions with epigrammatic conciseness: "Mr.Bellingham is hout, sir; but Miss Bellingham is hin." Having thus delivered herself she retreated towards the kitchen and I ascended the stairs, at the head of which I found Miss Bellingham awaiting me with her right hand encased in what looked like a white boxing-glove.
"I am glad you have come," she said.

"Phyllis--Miss Oman, you know--has kindly bound up my hand, but I should like you to see that it is all right." We went into the sitting-room, where I laid out my paraphernalia on the table while I inquired into the particulars of the accident.
"It is most unfortunate that it should have happened just now," she said, as I wrestled with one of those remarkable feminine knots that, while they seem to defy the utmost efforts of human ingenuity to untie, yet have a singular habit of untying themselves at inopportune moments.
"Why just now, in particular ?" I asked.
"Because I have some specially important work to do.

A very learned lady who is writing a historical book has commissioned me to collect all the literature relating to the Tell el Amarna letters--the cuneiform tablets, you know, of Amenhotep the Fourth." "Well," I said soothingly, "I expect your hand will soon be well." "Yes, but that won't do.

The work has to be done immediately.