"Yes, sir."
"Have you any salts -- volatile salts?"
"Yes."
"Go back and fetch both."
I returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the salts in my
drawer, and once more retraced my steps. He still waited; he held
a key in his hand: approaching one of the small, black doors, he
put it in the lock; he paused, and addressed me again.
"You don't turn sick at the sight of blood?"
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