Perhaps Dr. Benton’s lies would not have been such an insult if he had not put his hands on the sides of my face, his nose inches from mine, and said in his most commanding and loud voice, because he too obviously believed dying meant deaf, “Listen to me, Vincent. You may have got wind of a rumour going round that you don't have much longer."
"I'm sorry for starting that off. Bad form." He paused, perhaps to see if I had any comment; I could think of nothing appropriate. "It does rather appear to be true, though," he continued, and as his grip on my throat tightened, I came to understand how he had acquired his reputation as an infallible prognostician.
It was fortunate, therefore, that one of the symptoms of my malaise was an excess of internal methane, a sudden release of which rendered the good doctor senseless before his vice-like grip got the better of me.
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