Explore "A Secret Service" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Ida ran up the rickety staircase. In front of her, out of a door that was slightly open, there came a flood of clear, yellow light. As she pushed her way into the room she saw standing on the floor a standard lamp with a green silk shade. It looked startlingly out of place until she observed that the room was comfortably, not to say luxuriously, furnished. There was a thick carpet on the floor, some good prints on the walls, and in the modern grate a bright fire burnt cheerfully. The bed was of brass, and the coverlet was clean and white, as if fresh from the laundry. Lying on his back there, with face turned upwards, lay the patient. His eyes were open, but there was no expression in them, and it was plain that they saw nothing.
The man muttered from time to time, but the words were slurred, and Ida could not catch the meaning. Her heart overflowing with sheer pity and womanliness, she approached the bed and laid a cool, slim hand upon, the patient's burning forehead.