Something awful is going to happen. I
haven't done anything wrong that I know of--my conscience is clear--and
yet, I'm suffering. There lies my chum, shivering and unable to sleep. I
know by his quick breathing that he feels just as I do.... I say, Cat?
KIKI-THE-DEMURE, (_irritably, in a low tone_)
Be quiet!
TOBY-DOG
What? You're listening to some noise?
KIKI-THE-DEMURE
No! _Heavens_, no! Don't mention noise. The mere sound of your voice
makes the skin on my back go in waves like the sea. TOBY-DOG,
(_frightened_)
Are you going to die?
KIKI-THE-DEMURE
I hope not. I've a sick headache. Can't you see the arteries throbbing
under the almost hairless skin of my temples--the transparent, bluish
skin that denotes a thoroughbred? It's atrocious! The veins on my
forehead are like writhing vipers, and I don't know _what_ gnome forges
in my brain! Oh, be quiet! Or at least speak so low that the coursing
of my agitated blood may drown the sound of your voice....
TOBY-DOG
But it's this very silence that oppresses me. I tremble and don't know
why. I long for the familiar voice of the wind in the chimney, the
slamming of doors, the whispering of the garden, the poplars' ceaseless
rustle--it always sounds like a trickling spring--
KIKI-THE-DEMURE
The uproar will come, soon enough.
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