disdainfully at my dog-biscuit. Something awful is going to happen. I
haven't done anything wrong that I know of--my conscience is clear--and
yet, I'm suffering. There lies my chum, shivering and unable to sleep. I
know by his quick breathing that he feels just as I do.... I say, Cat?

KIKI-THE-DEMURE, (_irritably, in a low tone_)

Be quiet!

TOBY-DOG

What? You're listening to some noise?

KIKI-THE-DEMURE

No! _Heavens_, no! Don't mention noise. The mere sound of your voice
makes the skin on my back go in waves like the sea. TOBY-DOG,
(_frightened_)

Are you going to die?

KIKI-THE-DEMURE

I hope not. I've a sick headache. Can't you see the arteries throbbing
under the almost hairless skin of my temples--the transparent, bluish
skin that denotes a thoroughbred? It's atrocious! The veins on my
forehead are like writhing vipers, and I don't know _what_ gnome forges
in my brain! Oh, be quiet! Or at least speak so low that the coursing
of my agitated blood may drown the sound of your voice....