For what good, moral or
sentimental, did he slink, retreating like the hedgehog from his own
shadow, to and fro in this musty Bohemia that lacked even the
picturesque?
But the thing that struck home and set him raging was the part played
by the Amazonian prisoner. To the counterpart of that astounding
belligerent--identical at least, in the way of experience--to one,
by her own confession, thus far fallen, had he, not three hours since,
been united in marriage. How desirable and natural it had seemed to
him then, and how monstrous it seemed now! How the words of diamond
thief number two yet burned in his ears: "If you ever get a girl,
she'll have a picnic." What did that mean but that women instinctively
knew him for one they could hoodwink? Still again, there reverberated
the policeman's sapient contribution to his agony: "A man these days
and nights wants to know what his women folks are up to." Oh, yes, he
had been a fool; he had looked at things from the wrong standpoint.
But the wildest note in all the clamour was struck by pain's
forefinger, jealousy. Now, at least, he felt that keenest sting--a
mounting love unworthily bestowed. Whatever she might be, he loved
her; he bore in his own breast his doom. A grating, comic flavour to
his predicament struck him suddenly, and he laughed creakingly as he
swung down the echoing pavement.
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