"I--I am very ill Brigit," he said in a
hurried, deprecating way. "I--I am not sleeping at all, my nerves
are--rotten. And I thought I'd die if I couldn't see you. Don't be any
harder on me than--than necessary."
She sat down on the arm of a chair, and looked at him closely.
"You do look ill--very ill. And you look--I say, Gerald, are you taking
anything?"
He gave a shrill, cackling laugh. "Taking anything. No. You mean
morphine or something of that kind? _Pas si bete_, my dear. Oh, no, I
have always had a perfect horror of anything like that. W--why?"
"Because--I think you _are_," she returned coolly. "Show me your left
arm, Gerald."
"No, no, you are mad, my dear,--I assure you I don't. I give you my word
of honour----"
She came to him, and taking his arm in her strong hands pushed up his
sleeves and studied his emaciated arm for a few seconds in silence.
"I thought as much," she commented, as he almost whimpered in his
helpless annoyance.
"You are so rough, Brigit. Tony always says you are so rough."
"Yes, I am. Well--I am sorry for you, Gerald. When did you begin?"
"Oh--long ago. But--I seem to need more of late."
"Took it at first to make you sleep, I suppose?"
"Yes.
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