She did not look worse to me. It might have been only the temporary
effect of the strychnine and coffee, but there certainly appeared to be
a hint of color in her cheeks.
“I am going downstairs to telephone for a doctor,” I said, taking her
hand. Her fingers twined weakly around mine, and clung a little. “Will
you lie quietly here until I come back?”
“I don't want a doctor,” she breathed. “I'm much better.”
I paid no attention to this. “And will you promise me never to--not
to”--my voice was unsteady--“not to take any more of that dreadful
stuff?”
“I could n't,” she replied, in that maddeningly unsatisfactory way of
answering serious questions that women appear to have. “There is n't any
more.”