“You shall let me pass away in peace,” he said quietly, as he drew away a chair which propped back an inner door of baize, let it swing to, and thrust in both its bolts.
“Cousin Thompson,” he said bitterly, “you were always a miserable wretch, but I withdraw my curse. Take all, and enjoy your wretched life as well as such a reptile can.”
He paused for a few moments, with his lips moving slowly, and a calm look of resignation softening the harsh austerities of his face.
“To forgiveness!” he said softly. “To oblivion!” and he raised the glass to his lips.
Volume Three—Chapter Nineteen.
Vision or Real.
The shivering of glass as the fragments of a pane fell tinkling upon the carpet.
The shivering of glass as the little crystal fell from Horace North’s hand, and a pungent odour filled the room.