passing away； and so forth。
I had never taken a major anaesthetic before； and I must say I did not find the process pleasant。 I can still see the face of my friend Dr。 Lyne Stivens； and the jovial； rubicund countenance of the late Professor Rose； bending over me as through a mist； both grown so strangely solemn； and feel the grip of my hand tightening upon that of the nurse which afterwards it proved almost impossible to free。
Then came the whirling pit and the blackness。 I suppose that it was like death； only I hope that death is not quite so dark！
From this blackness I awoke in a state of utter intoxication to find the nurses of the establishment gathered round me with sheets of paper and the familiar； hateful autograph books in which； even in that place and hour； they insisted I should write。 Heaven knows what I set down therein： I imagine they must have been foolish words； which mayhap one day will be brought up against me。
Another question： Why cannot the public authorities establish really suitable nursing homes for paying patients？ This would be a great boon to thousands； and； I should imagine； self…supporting。
However； of one of these nurses at any rate； a widow； I have grateful recollections。 I amused myself； and； I trust； her； by reading “Ayesha” aloud to her during my long wakeful hours — for she was a night nurse。
This book “Ayesha；” which was published while I was in the nursing home； is a sequel to “She；” which； in obedience to my original plan； I had deliberately waited for twenty years to write。 As is almost always the case； it suffered somewhat from this fact； at any rate at the hands of those critics with whom it is an article of faith to declare that no sequel can be good。 Still； I have met and heard from