Changing his course he steered for the mirror and thrust forth his tongue. It was black. . . . Was he going to be poisoned? . . . Anyhow, it made him more Othello-like than ever. Probably Buster's friend, who blacked himself all over, quite forgot to black his tongue.
Desdemona watched out of one eye.
Othello turned and approached the bed, and then behaved as though playing tigers. With a growling roar he sprang at Desdemona and seized her by the throat with both white hands.
"Ee-e-e-e-e-e-e," shrilled Desdemona, as she felt their cold touch, and
"Ka-a-a-a-a-k! Ka-a-a-a-a-k," as the touch became a clutch.
She found that she hated being throttled when it came to the point.
"Stop it, you Sneak!" she gasped at her cruel and relentless husband. "Stop it—I didn't do it!"
"Didn't do what?" inquired Othello, somewhat relaxing his strangle-hold upon the poor lady's throat.
"Why, what you are strangling me for," replied the gasping Desdemona.
