“I wouldn’t carry those sinuses about with me, my friend, not in that condition, not for half of John D. Rockefeller’s pile.” Edward would not have minded continuing to carry his sinuses about exactly as they were. He vaguely treasured his afflictions. Without them he would not have felt interesting. Once, when a palmist told him that the latter part of his life would be spent in perfect health, Edward was definitely disappointed. However, an operation had its dramatic side, at least in anticipation and in retrospect. At the time it was a humiliation and a terror. “General anæsthetic absolutely unnecessary,” the gold-mouthed surgeon had said. “It’s as simple as letting off a gun. I’ll take out your tonsils at the same time. You won’t know a thing about it. You’ll be out batting with your friends in three days.” Early one morning a man in white helped the pale Edward on to a white-sheeted vehicle which ran quickly on white and furtive castors. There was no pillow on the vehicle, and Edward, perfectly horizontal, darting head first along strange smelling corridors, felt like a torpedo whizzing towards destruction. “As simple as letting off a gun.” The surgeon, waiting in a sort of loose-box furnished in white, was dressed in white. His manner had lost the affability which had hitherto characterised it. Even his gold teeth were hidden by a white mask which, like the mask of a Turkish woman, hid the lower part of his face. He further obscured his face by covering one eye with a saucer made of mirror. The pupil of his eye could be seen through a hole in the middle of the saucer, restless and malevolent like a spider in its web. Edward was draped in gauze by a nurse. The smell of drugs and disinfectants was so strong that it seemed as if the walls must burst. There was now no escaping from what the surgeon was going to do. The only thing one could do was to hinder him in his work. “Keep still, keep still ...” said the surgeon in a harsh voice. “Stop that noise, you fool.” Edward was afraid and he intended to stop the noise but he heard his own voice still bursting from his lungs. “Ah-ow ... ah-ow....” He wished to implore the surgeon to stop and let him rest from pain and the feeling of ubiquitous blood, but the cocaine in his throat prevented him from articulating. Every time the surgeon struck his terrible little chisel, Edward winced violently. He was very anxious that the surgeon should realise how unusually sensitive he was. He wanted the surgeon to be sorry for him. But the surgeon was angry. He tapped Edward’s forehead with barely suppressed anger. “I’m within a third of an inch of your brain here,” he said. “It’s up to you whether I can put this bit of work through or not.” Edward writhed. The nurse took his hand. “She’s sorry,” thought Edward. There was blood everywhere. Some blood on the white apron that was stretched across the surgeon’s stomach. Sweat was falling from the surgeon’s chin.