“What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present. They used to marry us off at seventeen, rush us into things before we had time to protest. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Of course, this does not apply to uninteresting old maids," Prudence modified with a dry little smile. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish.
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