Hyacinth Halvey: That is a strange account.
Bartley Fallon: And a sort of a megrim in my head, the same as a sheep would get a fit of staggers in a field.
Hyacinth Halvey: That is what I would look for. Is there some sort of a roaring in your ear?
Bartley Fallon: There is, there is, as if I would hear voices would be talking.
Hyacinth Halvey: Would you feel any wish to go tearing and destroying?
Bartley Fallon: I would indeed, and there to be an enemy upon my path. Would you say now, Widow Broderick, am I getting anyway flushy in the face?
Mrs. Broderick: Don't leave your eye off him for pity's sake. He is reddening as red as a rose.
Bartley Fallon: I could as if walk on the wind with lightness. Something that is rising in my veins the same as froth would be rising on a pint.
Hyacinth Halvey: It is the doctor I'd best call for—and maybe the sergeant and the priest.
Bartley Fallon: There are three thoughts going through my mind—to hang myself or to drown myself, or to cut my neck with a reaping-hook.