She had only married him for his money and his position, for his
enemies had told her he was a duke's son. She was a second Mrs.
Maybrick--but this conveyed nothing to newspaperless Marcella. She had
been unfaithful to him many times, he told her: Mr. King, Dutch Frank,
Ole Fred and the Chinese greengrocer from whom she bought granadillas
every day, were the objects of her transferred affections.
Unused to the ravings of delirium she was first wildly indignant and
then coldly despairing; at first she thought he was cruel; then she
realized, with a softening to pity, that he was only mad. He won back
the pity by telling her that his mouth and throat were now in an
advanced state of decomposition, having been dead many months; maggots
were crawling over them, choking him. The overwhelming beastliness of
this suggestion was almost more than she could bear until she realized
that it must be even more overwhelming for him. By chance she hit upon
the sort of treatment a doctor would most likely have given a man
suffering from alcoholic poisoning. She spoke to him quietly, as if
asking his advice, though she could scarcely control her voice.
"The best thing is to poison the maggots, don't you think, Louis?"
He looked at her craftily, his mind switching on to a less horrifying
thought.
"Ha! I knew you had poison.
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