and my father’s life has been practically given up to it.
“If only I knew how much the operation costs,” says he.
“Have you not asked?”
“Not directly, I cannot do that—the surgeon might take it amiss and that would not do, he must operate on Mother.”
Yes, I think bitterly, that’s how it is with us, and with all poor people. They don’t dare to ask the price, but worry themselves dreadfully beforehand about it; but the others, for whom it is not important, they settle the price first as a matter of course. And the doctor does not take it amiss from them.
“And the dressings afterwards are so expensive,” says my father.
“Doesn’t the Invalid’s Fund pay anything toward it, then?” I ask.
“Mother has been ill too long.”
“Have you any money at all?”
He shakes his head: “No, but I can do some overtime.”
I know. He will stand at his desk folding and pasting and cutting until twelve o’clock at night. At eight o’clock in the evening he will eat some of the
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