And when she had gone he stood deliberating.
Miss Quincey was a pathological abstraction, Miss Vivian was a radiant reality; it was clear that Miss Quincey was not urgent, and that once safe in her bed she could very well wait till to-morrow; but when he thought of Miss Vivian he became impressed with the gravity and interest of Miss Quincey's case.
While the doctor was making up his mind, little Miss Quincey, in her shabby back bedroom, lay waiting for him, trembling, fretting her nerves into a fever, starting at imaginary footsteps, and entertaining all kinds of dismal possibilities.

She was convinced that she was going to die, or worse still, to break down, to be a perpetual invalid.

She thought of several likely illnesses, beginning with general paralysis and ending with anemia of the brain.

It _might_ be anemia of the brain, but she rather thought it would be general paralysis, because this would be so much the more disagreeable of the two.

Anyhow Rhoda Vivian must have thought she was pretty bad or she would not have called in a doctor.