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I asked, with attempted cheerfulness. He said he never went there now. "No absinthe there," he muttered. It was the sort of thing that in old days he would have said for effect; but it carried conviction now. Absinthe, erst but a point in the "personality" he had striven so hard to build up, was solace and necessity now. He no longer called it "la sorciere glauque."
"Je me tiens toujours fidele," he told Rothenstein, "a la sorciere glauque." "It is bad for you," said Rothenstein, dryly. "Nothing is bad for one," answered Soames. "Dans ce monde il n'y a ni bien ni mal." "Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?" "I explained it all in the preface to 'Negations." "'Negations'?" "Yes, I gave you a copy of it." "Oh, yes, of course.
'Je me tiens toujours fidele, he told Rothenstein, 'a la sorciere glauque. 'It is bad for you, said Rothenstein dryly. 'Nothing is bad for one, answered Soames. 'Dans ce monde il n'y a ni de bien ni de mal. 'Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean? 'I explained it all in the preface to "Negations." "Negations"? 'Yes; I gave you a copy of it. 'Oh yes, of course.
He no longer called it 'la sorciere glauque. He had shed away all his French phrases. He had become a plain, unvarnished, Preston man. Failure, if it be a plain, unvarnished, complete failure, and even though it be a squalid failure, has always a certain dignity. I avoided Soames because he made me feel rather vulgar.
Behind the gentle spectacles his eyes assumed for a moment that singular blinking look which cannot be described in English, for it seemed to change their colour. In his country it would have been called glauque. "Ah, Hilda!" he said, approaching slowly, "do I see newspapers? I love a newspaper!"
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