After inhaling a few whiffs in silence, he doubtingly accosts her
with:
'Is it as potent as it used to be?'
'What do you speak of, deary?'
'What should I speak of, but what I have in my mouth?'
'It's just the same. Always the identical same.'
'It doesn't taste so. And it's slower.'
'You've got more used to it, you see.'
'That may be the cause, certainly. Look here.' He stops, becomes
dreamy, and seems to forget that he has invited her attention. She
bends over him, and speaks in his ear.
'I'm attending to you. Says you just now, Look here. Says I now,
I'm attending to ye. We was talking just before of your being used
to it.'
'I know all that. I was only thinking. Look here. Suppose you
had something in your mind; something you were going to do.'
'Yes, deary; something I was going to do?'
'But had not quite determined to do.'
'Yes, deary.'
'Might or might not do, you understand.'
'Yes.' With the point of a needle she stirs the contents of the
bowl.
'Should you do it in your fancy, when you were lying here doing
this?'
She nods her head. 'Over and over again.'
'Just like me! I did it over and over again. I have done it
hundreds of thousands of times in this room.'
'It's to be hoped it was pleasant to do, deary.'
'It WAS pleasant to do!'
He says this with a savage air, and a spring or start at her.
Quite unmoved she retouches and replenishes the contents of the
bowl with her little spatula.
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