Before he could answer I had
chipped in--'No, you liar! I hate men who clear their throats
before speaking. It was an old trick of yours, of which I
believed myself to have cured you at some pains. . . . So you
have played over ardent, and there has been a row, and you have
come down here to take it out of _me_. . . . Man, you thought
you would: but I have you beaten at last; for I see you--as she
will see you--dissolving back into the cad you always were.'
"'I am going to marry her,' Farrell persisted. 'Let that eat
into your soul.'
"'It has eaten,' said I, 'these weeks ago, just as far as ever it
will get; and that's as far as a rat can gnaw into a
marlinespike. . . . Come out of this into fresh air,' said I
with another look round on our images repeated in the mirrors.
'There are too many Farrells and Foes here. When I ran the
game, at Versailles that afternoon, it had a certain dignity.
. . . But, you! . . . Your primal curse, Farrell, reasserts
itself at length.
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