for fear he should be angry. Bazarov suddenly turned over on the sofa, bent a fixed dull look on his father, and asked for drink.
Vassily Ivanovitch gave him some water, and as he did so felt his forehead. It seemed on fire.
'Governor,' began Bazarov, in a slow, drowsy voice; 'I'm in a bad way; I've got the infection, and in a few days you'll have to bury me.'
Vassily Ivanovitch staggered back, as though some one had aimed a blow at his legs.
'Yevgeny!' he faltered; 'what do you mean!... God have mercy on you! You've caught cold!'
'Hush!' Bazarov interposed deliberately. 'A doctor can't be allowed to talk like that. There's every symptom of infection; you know yourself.'
'Where are the symptoms ... of infection Yevgeny?... Good Heavens!'
'What's this?' said Bazarov, and, pulling up his shirtsleeve, he showed his father the ominous red patches coming out on his arm.
Vassily Ivanovitch was shaking and chill with terror.
'Supposing,' he said at last, 'even supposing ... if even there's something like ... infection ...'
'Pyæmia,' put in his son.
'Well, well ... something of the epidemic ...'
