"Are you going to put her soul back to sleep?" I asked, as we turned again into the crowd.
I wasn't the least lordly in this question. I knew his struggle, and something of the market, too. I was thinking of tradesmen—how easy it is to be a tradesman; in fact, how difficult it is to be otherwise—when the very passion of the racial soul moves in the midst of trade.
"She's beautiful—even asleep," he said. "I'm afraid I'll have to give her something. I'm building a house. She's in the comprehension of the little varnished shelves—asleep."
"Doesn't a tight look come about the eyes—from much use of that sort of anæsthetic?" I asked.
"Let's get a drink," he answered.