“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. Raising the bowl in his right hand, Jack glanced towards the balcony, in which the group of ladies were seated, and begged to drink their healths; he then turned to Kneebone and the others, who extended their hands towards him, and raised it to his lips. “What if you get pregnant?” His worry came to a quick fruition. Her head swam. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. My death, probably. And so Winifred understood him.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 23-09-2024 00:36:09
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