“Pardi!”
“Je m’en f … de ce b … là!”
“N … d’un n…!”
And many another untranslatable audacity that could only be conveyed by the vitriolic pen of a Zola or a Willy.
From a table on his right came sinister mutterings.
“But how can he quit the country, Bill? D’you think there aren’t any ’tecs at Dover Harbour?”
“My G——! Harry, I wish I’d never touched the stuff!”
Dope, no doubt, reflected Gaveston sadly.
Farther over, near a respectable-looking door labelled Grill Room, sat a group of hideous old satyrs playing, apparently, dominoes. But the deep ravages of time and disease had seared their absinthe-rotted faces too terribly for Gaveston to be deceived by their pretence of childish pastime, and he tiptoed discreetly over to see whether he might not catch some of their conversation, muffled though it obviously was.
Yes, he could hear the raucous whispering of their broken English.