"Go and wash your hands while I go to bed," requested Desdemona. " You'll make a norful mess of me and the bed-clothes if you don't. . . . I'll put my nighty on over the wedding-dress."
Othello departed to the bath-room since he might not strangle his bride with unwashen hands.
Desdemona put on her nightdress, and removed her shoes. She then climbed on to her bed, lay down, pulled the sheet over her and gleefully awaited what was in store for her.
Othello entered, his hands looking as though their Moorish owner wore white kid gloves.
"Half a sec," ejaculated Desdemona the Realist, "I forgot my prayers."
Kneeling up, she assumed the conventional attitude of prayer, gabbled "Fwot we are about-receive, Lord, makus trulyfankfulamen," flopped down again, and began to snore.
Othello advanced, glaring horribly, with clutching fingers, and what he conceived to be an evil smile.
He licked his lips with the lick of cruel anticipation. The nearest pigment to his mouth was blacking, and he savoured its rich flavour.
