“So she did.” “Who is in the room, then?” “No one. Only you and I.” “And Dr. Kennedy?” “No.” “You have sent for him?” “I thought you wouldn’t care for me to give you a morphia injection.” “Why not? You give it better than he does. I want to see him when he comes.” “You may be asleep.” “No! I shan’t. Morphia keeps me awake, comfortably awake. De Quincey used to go to the opera when he was full up with it.” Peter Kennedy came in, and I followed the line of my own thoughts. I was feeling drowsy. “I don’t want you to play for me,” I said, a little pettishly perhaps. “I should never have gone to the opera.” “All right, I won’t.” He asked nurse in a low voice, “How much did you give her?” “A quarter of a grain, the same as before.” The bleeding had not left off. Benham straightened me amongst the pillows and fed me with ice. “I shall give her another quarter,” he said abruptly after watching for a few minutes. I smiled gratefully at him. Benham made no comment, but got more hot water. He made the injection carefully enough, but I preferred nurse’s manipulation. “For Margaret?” I asked him. “Partly,” he answered. “You will dream tonight.” “I shall die tonight. I want to die tonight. Give me something to hurry things, be kind. I don’t mind dying, but all this!” “Don’t. I can’t. Not again. For God’s sake don’t ask me!” There was more than sympathy in his voice. There was agitation, even tears. “You will get better from this.” “And then worse again, always worse. I want it ended. Give me something.” “Oh! God! I can’t bear this. Margaret!” “Don’t call me Margaret. My name is Jane. What is that stuff that criminals take in the dock? Italian poisoners keep it in a ring. I see one now, with pointed beard, melancholy eyes, a great ruby in the ring. Is anything the matter with my eyes? I can’t see.” “Shut them. Be perfectly quiet. The Italian poisoner will pass.” “You will give me something?” “Not this time.” I must have slept. When I woke he was still there. I was very comfortable and pleased to see him. “Why am I not asleep?” “You are, but you don’t know it.” “You won’t tell Ella?” “Not unless you wish it.” “I’ve written to her. See it goes.” I heard afterwards he searched for a letter, but could only find four words “Good-morning, Widow Lovegrove ...” which held no meaning for him. “Don’t let me wake again. I want to go.” “Not yet, not yet....” There followed another week of morphia dreams and complete content. I was roused with difficulty, and reluctantly, to drink milk from a feeding-cup, to have my temperature taken, my hands and face washed, my sheets changed. There was neither morning nor evening, only these disturbances and Ella’s eyes and voice in the clouded distance, vague yet comforting. “You will soon be better, your temperature is going down. Don’t speak. Only nod your head. Shall I cable for Dennis?”