"Yes," he repeated, "gas, or else ether or a sulphuric anesthetic, or else beat you into insensibility with a club, or give you three thousand bolts of electricity."
These may not have been his exact words. But they convey the feeling of them very nicely.
I could see the light of primitive criminality shining behind the man's spectacles.
And to think that this was my fault—the result of my own reckless neglect. I had grown so used to sitting back dozing in my shroud in the dentist's chair, listening to the twittering of the birds outside, my eyes closed in the sweet half sleep of perfect security, that the old apprehensiveness and mental agony had practically all gone.
He didn't hurt me, and I knew it.
I had grown—I know it sounds mad—almost to like him.
For a time I had kept up the appearance of being hurt every few minutes, just as a precaution. Then even that had ceased and I had dropped into vainglorious apathy.
It was this, of course, which had infuriated the dentist. He meant to reassert his power. He knew that nothing but gas could rouse me out of my lethargy and he meant to apply it—either gas or some other powerful pain stimulant.
So, as soon as he said "gas," my senses were alert in a moment.
"When are you going to do it?" I said in horror.