after that; and still
the boy lay stretched
on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and
wasting heat of fever.
The worm does not
his work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow-creeping
fire upon the living
frame. Weak, and
thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to
have been a long
and troubled dream. Feebly
raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on
his trembling arm, he
looked anxiously around.
What room is this? Where have I been brought to? said
Charles Dickens ElecBook
Classics Oliver
