She looked at him, and shook her head.
He said, “It’s important, baby.”
When he said that, she drew a sharp breath and went over to the dressing-table. He reached for the bottle and gave himself a long pull.
She came back, holding the tweezers.
He said, “Burn a match round ’em.”
While she was doing that, he drank some more whisky. By the time she started on him, he was pretty high.
Wires of pain clutched him, and sweat ran down his face. But he lay quite still, with his eyes shut, giving no sign that she hurt him.
He heard her say at last, “I’ve got them all.” She sounded so far away that he turned his head slowly and looked at her. She was white, her large eyes sunk far in her head. Holding on to the edge of the small table, she seemed to sway before his eyes.
He said, “Get a grip on yourself.” He tried to speak sharply, but just couldn’t make it. “Have a quick drink, you’re going to faint or something.”
She sat down on the floor. “I’ll… be… all right,” she said, forcing her head down. “Don’t worry. Just… give me a minute.”