Silence ensues. His eyes are sometimes closed and sometimes open. The woman sits beside him, very attentive to the pipe, which is all the while at his lips.
“I’ll warrant,” she observes, when he has been looking fixedly at her for some consecutive moments, with a singular appearance in his eyes of seeming to see her a long way off, instead of so near him: “I’ll warrant you made the journey in a many ways, when you made it so often?”
“No, always in one way.”
“Always in the same way?”
“Ay.”
“In the way in which it was really made at last?”
“Ay.”
“And always took the same pleasure in harping on it?”
“Ay.”
For the time he appears unequal to any other reply than this lazy monosyllabic assent. Probably to assure herself that it is not the assent of a mere automaton, she reverses the form of her next sentence.