There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. White looked mysteriously about the room as though to be sure that no one was listening. It’s gone. I believe you’ve crushed a gland or something. Take my word for it, your troubles are over. Now there is none. It'll be turning over to-morrow. Mistresses neither deserve consideration nor commiseration. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. I never saw a man who wasn't. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Who says that I am not Meysey Hill? I was trying to scare you. He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. I found him lying like this, the bleeding partly stopped by this scarf, else he had been dead by now.
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