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Updated: April 30, 2025
He turned back to his wife in a white fury. She leaned toward him, inviting his blows as martyrs welcome the torch that will make their pile of fagots a blazing bier. He struck her. Once. Twice. A rain of blows given in a blind passion that drove her to her knees, but she clung stubbornly, with rigid fingers to the table-edge.
Ould Mother Sheehy sat down of a heap an' began playin' wid the cups. 'Thin you're a well-matched pair, she sez, very thick. 'For he's the biggest rogue that iver spoiled the queen's shoe-leather, an' "'I'm off, Judy, sez I. 'Ye should not talk nonsinse to your mother. Get her to bed, girl. "'Nonsinse! sez the ould woman, prickin' up her ears like a cat an' grippin' the table-edge.
His fingers drummed a careless tattoo upon the table-edge. He was unquestionably master of the situation, and that without much apparent effort. And Sir Giles knew it, knew himself to be worsted, and that in his wife's presence. He glanced at her through eyes narrowed to evil slits. Her very impassivity goaded him. It seemed in some fashion to express contempt.
The Assistant Commissioner gazed wearily at his blotting-pad, striking imaginary chords upon the table-edge with his large widely extended fingers. He cleared his throat. "Er Chief Inspector," he said, "I fully recognize the difficulties which you follow me? But the Press is the Press. Neither you nor I could hope to battle against such an institution even if we desired to do so.
Phronsie put forth a trembling hand, as it seemed to be expected of her, and took the cup of water, spilling about half of it, which ran off the table-edge and down her little brown gown, the Dukess greeting this mishap with a shout of laughter, checking it suddenly with a start and a dismayed glance in the direction of the broken window. "It's time fer you to talk some," she said.
Durrance threw a sovereign into the hat, the man turned to thank him, and they talked for a little time together;" and as he came to this point he raised his head. A look of recognition came into his face. He laid his hands upon the table-edge, and leaned forward with his feet drawn back beneath his chair as though he was on the point of springing up. But he did not spring up.
"Thank you," said I, "thank you; with the exception of a scratch, or so, I am very well!" But, as I moved, I caught my thumb clumsily against the table-edge, and winced with the sudden pain of it. "What is it your hand?" "My thumb." "Let me see?" Obediently I stretched out my hand to her. "Is it broken?" "Dislocated, I think." "It is greatly swollen!"
Nor was it the figure stooping at the table-edge with a hand reached for the light that caught his gaze, it was the gleam of that light clear upon a signet ring, and Villon's phrase rang in his ears "A martlet with three mullets in chief." Then the lamp flickered out.
Now I must hurry and eat this nice luncheon you've fixed for me;" and she sprang toward the table. "Don't you want to write a note first?" asked Phronsie, wondering at Polly's strange mood, and following her to the table-edge, "you said so." "No; I've given it up," said Polly, sitting down and beginning on her chop and toast.
Keenly, under the lamp-shine, he watched the final reaction; his face, very pale and set, reflected a little of the mental stress that bound him. Along the table-edge before him, limp in its sling, his wounded arm lay useless. Yet with his left hand he controlled the sleeping giant in the dish. And as he dropped the glycerin, he counted. "Ten, eleven, twelve fifteen, sixteen twenty! Now!
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