In time you get used to it, but you never really
care for it.
The young man led me into a small room tastefully decorated with
four walls, a floor, a ceiling, a window sill and a window, a door
and a doorsill, and a bed and a chair. He told me to go to bed.
I did not want to go to bed--it was not my regular bedtime--but
he made a point of it, and I judged it was according to regulations;
so I undressed and put on my night clothes and crawled in. He
left me, taking my other clothes and my shoes with him, but I
was not allowed to get lonely.
A little later a ward surgeon appeared, to put a few inquiries of
a pointed and personal nature. He particularly desired to know
what my trouble was. I explained to him that I couldn't tell him--
he would have to see Doctor X or Doctor Z; they probably knew,
but were keeping it a secret between themselves.
The answer apparently satisfied him, because immediately after
that he made me sign a paper in which I assumed all responsibility
for what was to take place the next morning.
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