Everything in Graham's nature seemed to have become concentrated in one big ball of desire to hit and hit, and hit again—to hear the heavy thud of his blows on that man's body—to see him lying squirming and broken on the carpet with a receipt in full upon his face for all that he had done.
"Put up your fist," he said, "or I shall have to hit you cold."
"Curse you, get out!" cried Kenyon, catching Graham one on the mouth before he was ready.
Graham laughed. He needed that. By jove, he needed that. He let out his left. "That's for Peter," he said.
Kenyon staggered. His left eye seemed to fill. With a yell of pain he jumped in and hit wildly.
Graham waited a second chance and got it. "And that's for Belle," he said. And his knuckles bled with the contact of teeth.
Kenyon went in again. Chairs fell over and the table was pushed aside. And all the time that he failed to reach Graham's face he screamed like a horse whose stable is in flames.
But Graham, cold, icy cold, and cooler than he had ever been in his life, played with him. He had never been so much a man in his life. He warded and guarded and waited hoping that he might once more feel the sting of pain that would make his last blow unforgettable—epoch-making.
He got it,—but with Kenyon's foot.
And again Graham laughed,—for joy—for very joy. Now he could hit, and hit honestly.