He was a
dishonored fugitive, broken in fortune and reputation--why should she
not desert him? He had been unfaithful to her from wildness, from
caprice, from the effect of those fascinating qualities; it seemed to
him natural that she should be disloyal from more deliberate motives,
and he hugged himself with that belief. Yet there was enough doubt,
enough of haunting suspicion, that he had lost or alienated a powerful
affection, to make him thoroughly miserable. He returned his friend's
grasp convulsively and buried his face upon his shoulder. But he was
above feeling a certain exultation in the effect of his misery upon the
dog-like, unreasoning affection of Patterson, nor could he entirely
refrain from slightly posing his affliction before that sympathetic but
melancholy man. Suddenly he raised his head, drew back, and thrust his
hand into his bosom with a theatrical gesture.
"What's to keep me from killing Poindexter in his tracks?" he said
wildly.
"Nothin' but _his_ shooting first," returned Patterson, with dismal
practicality.
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