204 The Diary of a Drug Fiend
saw that he had taken a little pocket-knife and cut
the string of the bottle. He had levered out the cork,
and dipped the knife into the powder. He measured
out a dose with a queer cunning questioning smile
in his eyes. ,
My breath was coming quickly and shallowly. I
gave a hurried little nod. I seemed to hear myself
saying, “A little bit more.” At least, he added to
the heap.
“A little mild stimulant is indicated,” he said, with
an imitation of his bedside manner. He was kneeling
in front of my chair, and held up his hand like a priest
making an offering to his goddess.
The next thing I remember is that I was walking
feverishly, almost running, up Sloane Street. I hada
feeling of being pursued. Was it true, that old Greek
fable of the Furies? What had I done? What had
I done? ,
My fingers worked spasmodically on the little amber-
tinted bottle of poison. I wanted to get away from
every one and everything. I didn’t know where I was
going. I hated Peter from the depths of my soul. I
would have given anything in the world—except the
heroin—to be able never to see him again. But he
had the money, why shouldn’t we enjoy our abject
ruin as we had enjoyed our romance? Why not wallow
in the moist, warm mire?