But it is like that all over my body. I wish to die then. And I
will before long. The death will not hurt much if I keep on smoking. My
heart will stop, that is all. It will give me a chance to begin again."
"In another world--yes," said Angela. "But--couldn't you stop smoking?
Take medicine of some sort--have treatment from a doctor----"
"Too late, long time ago," he answered, with a calm, fatal smile. But his
eyes lit with a faint spark of anticipation, and his cheeks worked with a
slight twitching of the nerves, for, as he talked, in short sentences, he
was quietly rolling and cooking his dose of opium. Into a large pipe,
which looked to Angela like a queer, enormous flute with a metal spout
halfway down its length, he pushed a pill he had rolled, ramming it in
with a long pin, and cooking it in the flame of a small spirit lamp. He
did not speak again until he had pulled strenuously at the pipe a few
times. Then he went on talking, his face unchanged, unless it appeared
rather fuller, less seamed with the wrinkles of intense nerve strain.
"You see," he said, "that is all I do. I was in a good deal of pain, but I
am used to it. Now I'm contented for a few minutes. While I have this
happiness, I feel willing to pay the price.
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