"Here," he urged.
"If you had not the remedy--this what-you-call--pilocarpin, what would you do?" An edge of eagerness had crept into her tones.
"Do?" said Kingozi, a little impatiently. "I'd streak it for a surgeon. I have no desire to lose my sight."
Another pause.
"I shall not read your labels," she decided. Her voice now was low and decided.
"What!" cried Kingozi.
He could hear the rustle of her clothes as she leaned forward.
"Listen," she said. "Why should I do this for you? You have treated me as a man treats his dog, his horse, his servant, his child--not as a man treats a woman. Do you think because I have been the meek one, the quiet one, that I have not cared?"
"But this--my sight----"
"Your sight is safe. You tell me so yourself. Go back to your surgeon. And if you suffer inconvenience on the way--or pain--or humiliation--or anger --why that is what you have made me suffer."