I tried again, the same feeling came again and again,
till, with a face white as paper, that alarmed those about me, I fell
forward on the desk.
Water was given me; but I could not swallow it. I
never lost entire consciousness; but I thought I was going to die. I
never can forget all that in those moments passed through my brain.
They put me into a carriage, and took me to the consulting room, in
Mosley Street, of my old friend William Smith, the celebrated
Manchester surgeon, nephew of the great Mr. Turner, the surgeon. He
placed me on a sofa, and asked me what it was, - feeling, or trying to
find, my pulse the while. I whispered, "Up all night - over-anxious - no
food." He gave me brandy and soda water, and a biscuit, and told me to
lie still. I had never tasted this popular drink before. In about a
quarter of an hour I felt better, got up, and said, "Oh! I am all right
now." But Mr. Smith, nevertheless, ordered me to go home at once, go to
bed, take a pill - I assume, a narcotic - which he gave me, and not to
get up till he had seen me in the morning. I insisted on calling at the
office. I felt able to go on with my work. But at the office, something
in my looks induced them to send a faithful clerk with me in the cab to
our house, Woodland Cottage, Higher Broughton.
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