"You wish see me smoke opium, lady?" the old man asked, his tone
monotonous, devoid of interest, his face a mask. The light of a tallow
candle flared into his eyes, and wavered over his egg-shaped head, which
was entirely bald save for its queue.
"Oh, no," Angela answered, horrified, "I beg you won't smoke for me!"
"Not for you," he said. "I smoke all times. I must now. If not, I suffer
too much. It is the smoking keeps me alive. I cannot eat, or only a
little. My throats shuts up. But when I smoke, for a few minutes after I
am happy. Then I wait a while, and bimeby I smoke again."
"Surely--surely--you can't smoke opium all day and all night?" Angela
murmured, her lips dry. She seemed to know what he felt, and to feel it
with him. It was a dreadful sensation, that physical knowledge, racking
her nerves like a phase of nightmare.
"Nearly all day and all night, for I do not sleep much; perhaps two hours
in twenty-four. Once, a long time ago, the opium made me sleep. I had nice
dreams. Now it makes me wide awake. But I do not suffer, only for a few
minutes. When it gets too bad, I begin again."
"What is it like--the suffering?" Angela half whispered.
"Cramps, and aching in my bones. Maybe you never had a toothache--you are
too young.
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