“I took two three or four times when I first had ’em, sir; once I took three; but since then I’ve felt better and not wanted any.”
“Did you feel any inconvenience from them? Any pain?”
“Not a bit, sir. As I said to Ann Dovey that night, when she asked whether they was fit pills to give the children, they seemed as mild as milk.”
“Should you know the box again, witness?”
“Law yes, sir, what should hinder me?” returned Hester Reed, inwardly marvelling at what seemed so superfluous a question.
The coroner undid the paper, and handed the box to her. She was standing close to him, on the other side his clerk—who sat writing down the evidence. “Is this the box?” he asked. “Look at it well.”
Mrs. Reed did as she was bid: turned it about and looked “well.” “Yes, sir, it is the same box,” said she. “That is, I am nearly sure of it.”
“What do you mean by nearly sure?” quickly asked the coroner, catching at the word. “Have you any doubt?”
“Not no moral doubt at all, sir. Only them pill-boxes is all so like one another. Yes, sir, I’m sure it is the same box.”