'Do you feel sick—very sick?'
'Very.' His face was the picture of an emesis in embryo.
''Tis just what we want.'
The distressed man seemed to feel, gutturally, as if he could reject the comfort-drawing conclusion, ab imo pectore.
'Would you like to vomit?'
In the fulness of his stomach, he would have answered 'yes,' but restrained himself and his diaphragm after a moment's rumination.
'We don't want you to do that.'
'But I am exceedingly tired—wearied to death.'
'You will be better after it is over, my friend.'
'Give me a drink of water, doctor, for heaven's sake!'