"Aren't you coming to bed pretty soon? You know I can't go to
sleep when you are sitting up."

"Oh, hush up for one minute, can't ye? It's a funny thing if I
can't read a little once in a while."

"It's a funny thing if I've got to be broke of my rest this way. As
much as I have to look after. I'd hate to be so selfish . . . .
Henry! Won't you please put the book down and come to bed?"

"Oh, for goodness sake! Turn over and go to sleep. You make me
tired."

Every two or three hours Mrs. General Public wakes up and announces
that she can't get a wink of sleep, not a wink; she wishes he hadn't
brought the plagued old book home; he hasn't the least bit of
consideration for her; please, please, won't he put the book away
and come to bed?

He reaches "THE END" at 2:30A.M., turns off the gas, and creeps into
bed, his stomach all upset from smoking so much without eating
anything, his eyes feeling like two burnt holes in a blanket, and
wishing that he had the sense he was born with. He'll have to be up
at 6:05, and he knows how he will feel. He also knows how he will
feel along about three o'clock in the afternoon. Smithers is coming
then to close up that deal. Smithers is as sharp as tacks, as
slippery as an eel, and as crooked as a dog's hind leg. Always
looking for the best of it. You need all your wits when you deal
with Smithers. Why didn't he take Mrs. General Public's advice, and
get to bed instead of sitting up fuddling himself with that fool