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He sat in his little room, and called up the patients in turn. Sounds were continually coming from the little room, piercing wails, a child's crying, or the doctor's angry words: "Come, why are you bawling? Am I murdering you, or what? Sit quiet!" Pashka's turn came. "Pavel Galaktionov!" shouted the doctor.
"The little lad has an ulcer on his elbow, sir," answered his mother, and her face assumed an expression as though she really were terribly grieved at Pashka's ulcer. "Undress him!" Pashka, panting, unwound the kerchief from his neck, then wiped his nose on his sleeve, and began deliberately pulling off his sheepskin. "Woman, you have not come here on a visit!" said the doctor angrily.
From Pashka's bed part of another ward could be seen with two beds; on one a very pale wasted-looking man with an india-rubber bottle on his head was asleep; on the other a peasant with his head tied up, looking very like a woman, was sitting with his arms spread out. After making Pashka sit down, the assistant went out and came back a little later with a bundle of clothes under her arm.
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