"It's not the hat," she answered, pulling up the wild thyme and crushing it in her hands, "you know very well it's the spider. Doesn't that smell sweet?"
She held out the double handful of crushed sun-dried thyme, and as I bent my face over the cup made by her two curved hands, I was constrained to admit that the fragrance was delicious.
"Intoxicating even," I added.
"Not that. White lilies intoxicate you, so does mock-orange; and white may too, only it's unlucky to bring it into the house."
I smiled again.
"I don't see why you should call it superstitious to believe in facts," she said. "My cousin's husband's sister brought some may into her house last year, and her uncle died within the month."
"My husband's uncle's sister's niece
Was saved from them by the police.
She says so, so I know it's true—"
I had got thus far in my quotation when she interrupted me.
"Oh, well, if you're going to sneer!" she said, and added that it was getting late, and that she must go home.