Can't you see how bad it is, you who are a
doctor? You know the old saying about giving a dog a bad name and
hanging him. Louis, you're giving yourself a bad name, and hanging
yourself."
"Oh, I say, Marcella," he gasped. "Do you think--" he broke off, and
groaned again.
"Louis, I _know_. I don't _think_ anything about it! The other day I was
reading a most extraordinary book the schoolmaster lent me. It was about
St. Francis of Assisi. It said that, by contemplation of the wounds of
Christ, in time he came to feeling pain in his hands and feet and
side--"
"Balderdash!" muttered Louis impatiently. "Auto-suggestion!"
"Auto--what's that?" she asked. He explained and she cried out eagerly:
"Well, can't you see you're doing exactly the same thing? And you call
it balderdash when other people do it! Those wounds of St. Francis were
called the Stigmata--can't you see that you're giving yourself the
stigmata of drunkenness?"
"I've got them," he cried hoarsely. "I'm done. I'm even a thief."
"Oh, you idiot! How sorry I am for my father! He used to call me an
idiot, and have me to put up with. And now I've got you, and you're a
thousand times denser than ever I was! You're neither a drunkard nor a
thief, Louis. Look here, to begin with, how much do you owe Fred? You
shall have all I've got.
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