"
Meschini winced visibly and began to shuffle the cards, while he
attempted to smile to hide his embarrassment.
"I was not well yesterday--at least--I do not know what was the
matter--a headache, I think, nothing more. And then, this awful
catastrophe--horrible! My nerves are unstrung. I can scarcely
speak."
"You need sleep first, and then a tonic." said the apothecary in a
business-like tone.
"I slept until late this morning. It did me no good. I am half
dead myself. Yes, if I could sleep again it might do me good."
"Go home and go to bed. If I were in your place I would not drink
any more of that liquor. It will only make you worse."
"Give me something to make me sleep. I will take it."
The apothecary looked long at him and seemed to be weighing
something in his judgment. An evil thought crossed his mind. He
was very poor. He knew well enough, in spite of Meschini's
protestations, that he was not so poor as he pretended to be. If
he were he could not have paid so regularly for the chemicals and
for the experiments necessary to the preparation of his inks. More
than once the operations had proved to be expensive, but the
librarian had never complained, though he haggled for a baiocco
over his dinner at Cicco's wine shop, and was generally angry when
he lost a paul at cards.
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