“And what, in God’s name, does this mean?” thundered the doctor, stopping suddenly; a stream of blood was pouring from Prokop’s left hand. “How did you tear your finger?”
“Only a scratch,” Prokop protested and hid his left hand behind his back.
“Show me,” cried the doctor and dragged him to the window. Half of one finger was hanging by the skin. The doctor rushed to the cupboard for his scissors and in the open door saw Annie, deathly pale. “What do you want?” he rapped out. “Be off, quick!” Annie did not move; she pressed her hands to her breast and looked as if she might swoon away any moment.
The doctor turned to Prokop. To begin with he did something with some wadding and then snapped the scissors. “Light,” he shouted to Annie. Annie dashed to the switch and turned it on. “And don’t stay here,” roared the old gentleman, dipping a needle into some benzine. “What can you do here? Some thread, quick!” Annie sprang to the cupboard and gave him a box full of thread. “And now away with you!”
Annie looked at Prokop’s back and did something else instead; she stepped closer, took the wounded hand and held it in both of hers. The doctor at the moment was washing his hands; he turned to Annie and was going to burst out with something but instead grunted: “All right, hold it firmly! And nearer the light!” Annie held the hand, her eyes blinking. When there was nothing to be heard but the doctor's heavy breathing she ventured to raise them. Below, where her father was working, all
