As already mentioned, I was totally ignorant of drugs and their effect. His words, which I took literally, frightened me. I watched him mix the solution, fill his syringe slowly with shaking hands, then unfasten his clothes. I found the place and rubbed the skin as usual, while he sat back in his big chair, in sullen silence. He drew the needle out; his face was awful; he sighed and groaned; I really thought he was going to collapse before my eyes, perhaps to die. I rubbed and rubbed ... while the magical change stole slowly over him. His face cleared, his smile came back, he looked younger, his very voice became mellow instead of harsh and rough, his eyes lit up with happiness. The contrast was astonishing, the effect so rapid. And, for the first time, a longing rose in me: if only _I_ could have some of this bewitching panacea! My troubles would all melt away. I should feel happy. Hunger also would disappear. Was it so terrible and dangerous after all? The thought went through me like a burning flame. It was a thought, merely. I had no intention of asking, not even of suggesting, such a thing. I would not have dared to; the old man, I knew, besides, would never, never consent; his obstinacy was beyond any power of mine to modify. None the less, the thought and desire were distinctly in me at that moment. It even crossed my mind that he was selfish, inconsiderate, unkind, not to realize that a little, oh, just a tiny dose, would help me and make me happy too. The change in him was now complete, he settled back in his deep chair. I heard him asking for the fiddle. I remember the effort it cost me to say something about being ready to try, and how I concealed my sulky face as I crossed the room to open my case. I felt disappointed, rather sore, a trifle angry too; he could so easily open the gates of heaven for me. I fumbled with the case, delaying on purpose, for no music lay in me, and I did not want to play, I felt miserable all over. My back was turned to him. And then I heard my name softly spoken close behind me. I turned with a start, it was the doctor’s voice, its peculiar softness struck me. He was coming slowly across the room, a curious smile on his face, peering at me over the top of his spectacles, the shoulders bent forward a little, his gait slouching, his slippers dragging along the carpet, his white hair tumbling about his forehead, moving slowly at me--and in his raised right hand was a needle poised to strike. I knew what it meant: he was going to give me morphia without even being asked. A queer revulsion of feeling came over me. He was saying something, but I did not hear the words properly, nor understand them, at any rate; his voice, too, was so low and soft. My brain was in a whirl. Something in the old man’s appearance frightened me. The idea of the drug now also frightened me. Then, suddenly, a complete recklessness rushed over me.