"I can't help saying so—"
"I know it," she said soothingly; "these sentimental outbursts are part of the disease—"
"Good Heavens! Won't you try to believe me! There's nothing in the world the matter with me except that I am—am—p-p-perfectly f-f-fascinated—"
"You must struggle against it, Mr. Carden. That is only part of the—"
"It isn't! It isn't! It's you! It's your mere presence, your personality, your charm, your beauty, your loveliness, your—"
"Mr. Carden, I beg of you! I—it is part of my duty to observe symptoms, but—but you are making it very hard for me—very difficult—"
"I am only proving to you that it isn't Lamour's Disease which does stunts with my pulses, my temperature, my color. I'm not morbid except when I realize my deception. I'm not depressed except when I think how far you are from me—how far above me—how far out of reach of such a man as I am—how desperately I—I—"
"D-don't you think I had better administer a s-s-sedative, Mr. Carden?" she said, distressed.
"I don't care. I'll take anything you give me—as long as you give it to me. I'll swallow pint after pint of pills! I'll fletcherize 'em! I'll luxuriate in poison—anything—"
She was hastily running through the pages of the ninth volume to see whether the symptoms of sentimental excitement ever turned into frenzy.