"I want some poison." she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then, still a slight woman, though thinner than usual with cold, haughty black eyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and about the eye-sockets as you imagine a lighthousekeeper's face ought to look. "I want some poison." she said.
"Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I'd recommend—"
"I want the best you have. I don't care what kind."