Then there came a time when Katy didn't even ask to be allowed to get
up. A time when sharp, dreadful pain, such as she never imagined
before, took hold of her. When days and nights got all confused and
tangled up together, and Aunt Izzie never seemed to go to bed. A time
when Papa was constantly in her room. When other doctors came and stood
over her, and punched and felt her back, and talked to each other in
low whispers. It was all like a long, bad dream, from which she
couldn't wake up, though she tried ever so hard. Now and then she would
rouse a little, and catch the sound of voices, or be aware that Clover
or Elsie stood at the door, crying softly; or that Aunt Izzie, in
creaking slippers, was going about the room on tiptoe. Then all these
things would slip away again, and she would drop off into a dark place,
where there was nothing but pain, and sleep, which made her forget
pain, and so seemed the best thing in the world.
We will hurry over this time, for it is hard to think of our bright Katy
in such a sad plight. By and by the pain grew less, and the sleep
quieter. Then, as the pain became easier still, Katy woke up as it
were--began to take notice of what was going on about her; to put
questions.
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