. . .
"She had defeated me. . . . I watched her without uttering a word.
Farrell let out a guttural sort of _ah-h!_ and sat up somewhat higher
against her knee, opening his chest and breathing in new life as the
Chartreuse coursed through his veins. Santa turned the flask
upside-down, and handed it to me.
"'I have won!' she said softly. 'Men at the last are--what is the
word?--magnanimous, mostly: and that is why a woman can usually win
in the end.'
"'You have thrown away,' said I, 'so much of life as I gave you,
renouncing much. You have sacrificed yourself.'
"'That was _my_ share of the price, my friend. Now continue to be
great, as for these many days you have been good. There is a bad
pain about my heart. With that other small bottle of yours, and with
that needle I have seen you use . . . You will? Ah, how much better
it is to be friends than enemies, when the world--even this little
shrinking world--is so wide yet--so wide--'
"So I took her wrist and, she scarcely wincing, injected the last
drop of my morphia: yes, Roddy, and kissed the spot like any poor
fool, she not resisting! .
Pages:
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385