“Yes.”
“I want to have some talk with Mr. Dexter.”
“You don’t! You want to take my place. You want to brush his hair and oil his beard, instead of me. You wretch!”
I now began to understand. The idea which Miserrimus Dexter had jestingly put into her head, in exhibiting her to us on the previous night, had been ripening slowly in that dull brain, and had found its way outward into words, about fifteen hours afterward, under the irritating influence of my presence!
“I don’t want to touch his hair or his beard,” I said. “I leave that entirely to you.”
She looked around at me, her fat face flushing, her dull eyes dilating, with the unaccustomed effort to express herself in speech, and to understand what was said to her in return.
“Say that again,” she burst out. “And say it slower this time.”
I said it again, and I said it slower.
“Swear it!” she cried, getting more and more excited.
I preserved my gravity (the canal was just visible in the distance), and swore it.