"There you are!" countered her remorseless husband. "You done so many things you don't even know which of them this is to pay you out for."
"Well, which is it, then?" squealed the fated bride, as the cruel grip again tightened about her neck, and the incensed Moor protruded a blackened and curling tongue to mark renewed vigour and determination.
"Yah! You don't know yourself," she gurgled, and by way of dying game, used her last breath in vituperative ejaculations of—
"Black Face! . . . Black Sheep! . . . Black Bird! . . . Nasty Nigger! . . . Old Hubshi! . . . Yah! . . ."
Othello desired to be just though not generous, and relaxed his grip.
"Oh, yes, I do," he said, and pondered awhile. "You poked out your tongue behind my back while we were getting married, besides I'm fierce and jealous; it's in the book—Buster said so."
"Why are you fierce and jealous?" squeaked Desdemona, playing for time.
"Because you ate that last ten pounds of
