The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. He's as savage and suspicious as the devil himself. It was in no sense confessional; it was a state of mind in the patient the doctor had already anticipated. He had heard me sing—the fool thought himself in love with me. "You'll not be offended, I hope," returned Wood, drily, "if I say that your voice, your manner, and, above all, your very extraordinary way of laughing, put me strangely in mind of one of the 'droll dogs,' (as you term them,) who helped to perpetrate the outrage I've just described. . .
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