"
"I must give you gas," said Mr Cowlishaw, faintly.
"Gas!" she exclaimed. "You'll give me no gas, young man. No! My heart is
not good. I should die under gas. I couldn't bear the idea of gas. You
must take it out without gas, and you mustn't hurt me. I'm a perfect
baby, and you mustn't on any account hurt me." The moment was crucial.
Supposing that he refused--a promising career might be nipped in the
bud; would, undoubtedly, be nipped in the bud. Whereas, if he accepted
the task, the patronage of the aristocracy of Hanbridge was within his
grasp. But the tooth was colossal, monumental. He estimated the length
of its triple root at not less than 0.75 inch.
"Very well, madam," he said, for he was a brave youngster.
But he was in a panic. He felt as though he were about to lead the
charge of the Light Brigade. He wanted a stiff drink. (But dentists may
not drink.) If he failed to wrench the monument out at the first pull
the result would be absolute disaster; in an instant he would have
ruined the practice which had cost him so dear. And could he hope not to
fail with the first pull? At best he would hurt her indescribably.
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