She laughed, shrugging her shoulders.
"You are an 'orrible fellow! You think of nothing but diseases and
wickedness. I wonder if you 'ave ever 'ad a good time yourself--ever
laughed, like I do, from ze 'eart?"
He looked away from her. He felt for a moment oddly uneasy and
distressed.
"No, I don't suppose I have."
"Ah, _c'est dommage, mon pauvre jeune homme_. But you don't like me.
What can I do?"
"I don't expect you to do anything."
"Not my business, _hein_? No one 'ave any business 'ere who 'ave not
got an illness. Ver' well. I will 'ave an illness--a ver' leetle one.
No, not ze tummy-ache. _C'est vieux jeu ca_. But a leetle sore
throat. You know about throats, _hein_?"
"My specialty," he said smiling back at her with hard eyes.
"Bien, I 'ave a leetle sore throat--_fatigue plutot_--'e come and 'e
go. I smoke too much. But I 'ave to smoke. It's no good what you
say."
"I'm sure of that," he said.
He made her sit down in the white iron chair behind the screen and,
adjusting his speculum, switched on the light. He was bitterly angry
because she had forced this farce upon him. He felt that she was
laughing all over. The pretty pinkness of her open mouth nauseated
him. He thought of all the men who had kissed her, and had been ruined
by her as though by the touch of a deadly plague. He pressed her
tongue down with a deliberate roughness.
"You 'urt," she muttered. But her eyes were still amused.
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