Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
This thrilling novel of a doctor's life has been the subject of a Mobil Masterpiece Theatre dramatic series on PBS. "Cronin's distinguished achievement. . . . No one could have written as fine, honest, and moving a study of a young doctor as "The Citadel" without possessing great literary taste and skill".--"The Atlantic Monthly".
butler two hundred pounds and her chef twice that sum a year. The prices which she charged her patients were fantastic. Forty guineas for a room each week was not an uncommon figure. And on top of that came extras, the chemist’s bill—often a matter of pounds—the special night nurse, the theatre fee. But when argued with, Ida had one answer which she often adorned with a free and easy adjective. She had her own worries, with cuts and percentages to be paid out, and often she felt it was she who
you may not be aware of the fact, my dear little schoolmarm from Blaenelly, we are rapidly getting rich.” She did not answer his smile. She felt her body, peaceful and warm in the sunshine, chill suddenly. She began to pick at a tuft of grass, to twine it foolishly with a tassel of the rugs. She said slowly:— “Dear, do we really want to be rich? I know I don’t. Why all this talk about money? When we had scarcely any we were—oh! we were deliriously happy. We never talked of it, then. But now we
popular basis. But I honestly believe the time has come to expand our interests and go in for more scientific derivatives. Split up the milk components, electrify them, irradiate them, tabloid them. Cremo with vitamin B, Cremofax and lecithin for malnutrition, rickets, deficiency insomnia—you get me, Doc. And further, I believe if we tackle this on more orthodox professional lines we can enlist the help and sympathy of the whole medical profession, make every doctor, so to speak, a potential
of the vehicle, like herrings in a tin. Suddenly the horn began again: “Krr-krr-krr-krr—” Con had inadvertently pushed the button in switching off and now it was jammed. The Klaxon would not stop. “Krr-krr-krr—” it went, while Con fumbled and swore, and windows went up in the Row opposite, and Mrs. Boland sat with a remote expression on her face, unperturbed, holding the baby dreamily. “In the name of God,” Con cried, his moustache bristling along the dashboard. “I’m wastin’ juice. What’s
surgeon answered brusquely, after the fashion of his kind:— “Yes, yes, he’s comfortable. Doing well. Who wants to know?” “Oh,” mumbled Andrew from the public phone box, “nobody.” And that, he thought bitterly, was exactly what he was: nobody, doing nothing, getting nowhere. He endured it till the end of the week, then quietly, without fuss, he handed in his resignation to Gill for transmission to the Board. Gill was upset, yet admitted that a premonition of this sad event had troubled him. He