He listened to my story in absolute silence, which made me more and more nervous as I went on.
His lips stuck out in an unpleasant way which reminded me of the Psalmist’s description of those hateful people who used to say “tush” to the godly.
My account of the enterprise began to seem unconvincing even to myself as it had never done before, and the narrative tailed off on a note of apology, which for the life of me I could not keep out of it.
“That’s all you know about the business?” he asked.
“Yes. I think so.”
“My dear Davoren, you’ve wasted my time and your own money bringing me down here.”
“I’m sorry; but why?”
“You don’t want a lawyer, you want a doctor.”
“Oh! no thanks. I don’t care about doctors while I’m well. They talk shop and smell of iodoform, or whatever they call the stuff.”
“You want a mental specialist, what they call an alienist.”