It was in some part of Russia. He killed a wolf at close
quarters--only a knife to fight with. He was a fine man, my father.
Looks it, don't you think?"
Thirst was upon him again; he drank the first liquor that came to
hand, then sat down and was silent.
"You feel better?" said Gammon.
"Better? Oh, thanks, much the same. I shan't be better till things
are settled. That won't be long. I expected to hear from
Greenacre--I think you said you knew Greenacre?"
"What is he doing for you?" Gammon inquired, thinking he might as
well take advantage of this lucid moment, the result, seemingly, of
alcoholic stimulation.
"Doing? We'll talk of that presently. Mind you, I have complete
confidence in Greenacre. I regret that I didn't know him long ago."
He sighed and began to wander. "My best years gone--gone! You
remember what I was, Gammon? We don't live like other people,
something wrong in our blood; we go down--down. But if I had lived
as I was, and let the cursed title alone! That was my mistake,
Greenacre. I had found happiness--a good wife.
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