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She dreamed that the whole flat was filled up from floor to ceiling with a huge piece of iron, and that if they could only get the iron out they would all be light-hearted and happy. Waking, she realized that it was not the iron but Dymov's illness that was weighing on her. "Nature morte, port..." she thought, sinking into forgetfulness again. "Sport... Kurort... and what of Shrek?
"But you will send for Shrek?" said Olga Ivanovna. "He has been already. It was he noticed that the diphtheria had passed into the nose. What's the use of Shrek! Shrek's no use at all, really. He is Shrek, I am Korostelev, and nothing more." The time dragged on fearfully slowly. Olga Ivanovna lay down in her clothes on her bed, that had not been made all day, and sank into a doze.
Shrek... trek... wreck.... And where are my friends now? Do they know that we are in trouble? Lord, save... spare! Shrek... trek..." And again the iron was there.... The time dragged on slowly, though the clock on the lower storey struck frequently.
We ought to send for Shrek really." A little red-haired man with a long nose and a Jewish accent arrived; then a tall, stooping, shaggy individual, who looked like a head deacon; then a stout young man with a red face and spectacles. These were doctors who came to watch by turns beside their colleague.
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