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Updated: May 4, 2025
"You're no' fatigued? You would no' like a steemulant?" Saxham started and withdrew his gaze. He had been staring with dull intensity of desire at the brandy-decanter, forgotten by the matron, whose usual charge it was. And the sharp blue-grey eye of Surgeon-Major Taggart followed the glance to its end in the golden-gleaming crystal. "Fatigued? I hardly think so!"
He found a bottle of champagne and the brandy-decanter, and a long tumbler, and knocked off the wired neck of the bottle against the chimneypiece, and crashed the foaming wine into the crystal, and filled up the glass with brandy, and tossed off the stinging, bubbling, hissing mixture, and laughed as he set the tumbler down. The thing inside the oak-and-silver cellaret laughed too.
He turned and caught up the heavy glass brandy-decanter, emitting a nervous and irresponsible laugh. In one hand he held the decanter, in the other the half-filled tumbler. That, at least, implied an appreciable space of time before those hands could be freed. In that, she felt, lay her hope. Quicker than thought she darted to the door over which still swung the shrouding blanket.
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