'
I remembered something in the will about it, and Mary Quince was constantly
grumbling that 'he did not spend a pound a week on our board.'
I answered nothing, but looked down.
Another glance at the door from Doctor Bryerly's sharp black eyes.
'Is he kind to you?'
'Very kind--most gentle and affectionate.'
'Why doesn't he keep company with you? Does he ever dine with you, or drink
tea, or talk to you? Do you see much of him?'
'He is a miserable invalid--his hours and regimen are peculiar. Indeed
I wish very much you would consider his case; he is, I believe, often
insensible for a long time, and his mind in a strange feeble state
sometimes.'
'I dare say--worn out in his young days; and I saw that preparation of
opium in his bottle--he takes too much.'
'Why do you think so, Doctor Bryerly?'
'It's made on water: the spirit interferes with the use of it beyond a
certain limit. You have no idea what those fellows can swallow. Read the
"Opium Eater." I knew two cases in which the quantity exceeded De Quincy's.
Aha! it's new to you?' and he laughed quietly at my simplicity.
'And what do you think his complaint is?' I asked.
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