'You will oblige me by minding your own business. Your remark is the merest
impertinence. That packet consists of MS., and will, therefore, go at book
rate. Be so good as to weigh it at once.'
Mr. Farmiloe lost all control of himself, and well-nigh screamed.
'No, madam, I will _not_ weigh it. And let me inform you, as you are so
ignorant, that to weigh packets is not part of my duty. I do it merely to
oblige civil persons, and you, madam, are not one of them.'
The lady instantly turned and withdrew.
'Damn the post-office!' yelled Mr. Farmiloe, alone with his errand-boy, and
shaking his fist in the air. 'This very day I write to give it up. I
say--_damn_ the post-office.'
He returned to his dispensing, completed it, wrapped up the bottle in the
customary manner, and despatched the boy to the house.
Five minutes later a thought flashed through his mind which put him in a
cold sweat. He happened to glance along the shelf from which he had taken
the bottle containing the last ingredient of the mixture, and it struck
him, with all the force of a horrible doubt, that he had made a mistake. In
the irate confusion of his thoughts, he had done the dispensing almost
mechanically.
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