"Pray, papa, don't drink any more," said she, persuasively--"it makes you
nervous, and will bring on one of those frightful attacks again."
"Let me alone," he remonstrated harshly--"let me alone, and take your hand
off the glass; the doctor has forbidden laudanum, so I will have brandy
instead--take off your hand and let me drink, I say."
Lizzie still kept her hand upon the decanter, and continued gently: "No,
no, dear pa--you promised me you would only drink two glasses, and you have
already taken three--it is exceedingly injurious. The doctor insisted upon
it that you should decrease the quantity--and you are adding to it
instead."
"Devil take the doctor!" exclaimed he roughly, endeavouring to disengage
her hold--"give me the liquor, I say."
His daughter did not appear the least alarmed at this violence of manner,
nor suffer her grasp upon the neck of the decanter to be relaxed; but all
the while spoke soothing words to the angry old man, and endeavoured to
persuade him to relinquish his intention of drinking any more.
"You don't respect your old father," he cried, in a whining tone--"you
take advantage of my helplessness, all of you--you ill-treat me and deny me
the very comforts of life! I'll tell--I'll tell the doctor," he continued,
as his voice subsided into an almost inaudible tone, and he sank back into
the chair in a state of semi-stupor.
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