“Like a doctor, aren’t you,” he said, without a question mark. “You come here and drain a boil. A huge throbbing carbuncle, the size of someone’s whole life. Then you wash your hands and pretend you’ve never smelt anything but roses. And you walk away with heavier pockets, until the next time. So like a doctor. All for the benefit of mankind. Except you’re really doing it because men like my father like the taste of pus...”