'"
Is it true that, six months ago, the soft, pure cheek of Constance
Brandon rested often on the broad breast that pillows now the disheveled
head of that wild-eyed, shrill-voiced Maenad? Draw the curtains closer
yet; shut out the dawn of the Nativity for very shame.
Mohun was breakfasting with Livingstone on a cold, gusty January
morning, that succeeded a night of heavy drinking and heavier play. The
colonel would see him through one of these readily enough, but if there
was even a single female face present he would retreat in disgust and
contempt unutterable. Guy had been hit so hard that it made him graver
than usual as he thought of it, though he was tolerably inured and
indifferent to evil fortune; so the conversation languished during the
meal. After it was over, Mohun rose to light a cigar, while his
companion took up a pile of letters and began to glance at them
listlessly. Suddenly the former dropped the match from his hand,
starting in irrepressible astonishment.
He had seen strong men die hard, mangled and shattered by sabre or
bullet, but he had never heard a sound so terribly significant of agony
as the dull, heavy groan that just then burst from Livingstone's lips.
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