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Irritated, bored, he had perforce sulkily entered the elevator and passed to his room, where there was nothing on earth for him to do except to thumb over last week's sporting periodicals and smoke himself stupid. But it required more than that to ensnare the goddess of slumber. He walked about the room, haunted of slow thoughts; he stood at the rain-smeared pane, fat fingers resting on the glass.
Fancher stood far a moment, his rain-smeared lantern hanging motionless at his side. "Tarleton may not ride tonight," he said, and moved off a step or two; then, turning: "But, damn him, I think he will," said he. And walked away, swinging his light as furiously as a panther thrashes his tail.
Were it not for a half-defiant, half-sullen dread of the coming night, he might have put it from his mind in spite of the slowly increasing nervous tension and the steady dull consciousness of desire. He drew another Sirdar from his case and sat staring at the rain-smeared night, twisting the frail fragrant cigarette to bits between his fingers.
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