My own belief is I've got softening of
the brain. What's good for softening of the brain? There isn't a doctor
living who won't tell you the right remedy--wine. Pass the wine. If
this claret is worth a farthing, it's worth a guinea a bottle. I ask
you in confidence; did you ever hear of such a fool as my wife's lord?
His name escapes me. No matter; he stops in Ireland--hunting. Hunting
what? The fox? Nothing so noble; hunting assassins. He's got some
grudge against one of them. Means to kill one of them. A word in your
ear; they'll kill him. Do you ever bet? Five to one, he's a dead man
before the end of the week. When is the end of the week? Tuesday,
Wednesday--no, Saturday--that's the beginning of the week--no, it
isn't--the beginning of the week isn't the Sabbath--Sunday, of
course--we are not Christians, we are Jews--I mean we are Jews, we are
not Christians--I mean--"
The claret got the better of his tongue, at last. He mumbled and
muttered; he sank back in his chair; he chuckled; he hiccupped; he fell
asleep.
All and more than all that Mountjoy feared, he had now discovered. In a
state of sobriety, the doctor was probably one of those men who are
always ready to lie.
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