"
She shook her head, and laid a two-shilling piece on the counter. "I won't
trouble you to look at the tooth," she said. "There is the money. Let me
have the laudanum, if you please."
The doctor put the two-shilling piece back again in her hand. "I don't
sell laudanum to strangers," he answered. "If you are in any distress of
body or mind, that is another matter. I shall be glad to help you."
She put the money back in her pocket. "_You_ can't help me," she said, as
quietly as ever. "Good morning."
With that, she opened the surgery door to go out again into the street. So
far, I had not spoken a word on my side. I had stood with the candle in my
hand (not knowing I was holding it)--with my eyes fixed on her, with my
mind fixed on her like a man bewitched. Her looks betrayed, even more
plainly than her words, her resolution, in one way or another, to destroy
herself. When she opened the door, in my alarm at what might happen I
found the use of my tongue.
"Stop!" I cried out. "Wait for me. I want to speak to you before you go
away." She lifted her eyes with a look of careless surprise and a mocking
smile on her lips.
"What can _you_ have to say to me?" She stopped, and laughed to herself.
"Why not?" she said. "I have got nothing to do, and nowhere to go." She
turned back a step, and nodded to me. "You're a strange man--I think I'll
humor you--I'll wait outside.
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