Maggie went out. She found Cowley Street without any difficulty. Dr.
Abrams was up and having his breakfast. His close, musty room smelt
of whisky and kippers. He himself was a little, fat round Jew, very
red in the face, very small in the eye, very black in the hair, and
very dirty in the hands.
He was startled by Maggie's appearance--very different she was from
his usual patients.
"Looked just a baby," he informed Mrs. Brandon afterwards.
"Mrs. Warlock?" he asked.
"No," said Maggie defiantly. "I'm a friend of Mr. Warlock's."
"Ah, yes--quite so." He wiped his mouth, disappeared into another
room, returned with a shabby black bag and a still shabbier top hat,
and declared himself ready to start.
"It's pneumonia," he told her as they went along. "Had it three
weeks ago. Of course if he was out in yesterday's fog that finished
him."
"He was out," said Maggie, "for a long time."
"Quite so," said Dr. Abrams. "That's killed him, I shouldn't
wonder." He snuffled in his speech and he snuffled in his walk.
Before they had gone very far he put his hand on Maggie's arm; she
hated his touch, but his last words had so deeply terrified her that
nothing else affected her.
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