"What we suffer from most," said the spectre, when I had partly recovered
from my fright, "is a kind of aphasia."
The spectre was sitting on the armchair beside my bed in the haunted room
of Castle Perilous.
"I don't know," said I, as distinctly as the chattering of my teeth would
permit, "that I quite follow you. Would you mind--excuse me--handing me
that flask which lies on the table near you. . . . Thanks."
The spectre, without stirring, so arranged the a priori sensuous schemata
of time and space {261} that the silver flask, which had been well out of
my reach, was in my hand. I poured half the contents into a cup and
offered it to him.
"No spirits," he said curtly.