“Ah,” said Muriel, as she rose almost steadily and advanced, “any secrets that I cannot know?”
“No, there is not. I was just telling him that I am sick of your constant sprees and temper. That’s all, and I mean it.”
“Ah,” said Muriel, advancing and with a dangerous light in her eyes, “and, I suppose, you meant it when you deserted your honest wife for me, and when you struck your child, and killed him, for all you know. Yes, you must have meant both those things; as you never took a drink in your life, you had not even the excuse of drunkenness. Mine was a new face then, and now that the liquor that you gave me to gain your ends has got the best of me, you’ll quit me cold, will you? Then, let me tell you, when you do it will be cold for you, for you will be dead!”
“’Scuse me, cull, I hear me mudder callin’ me, an’ I has to go,” said Dopey.
“Go to the devil, if you want to,” replied Pierson angrily.
“Dat’s jes’ where I don’t want to go. Her jigs is up to de boilin’ point, an’ all dem sharp shoe-knives lyin’ dere. See me eye. She put dis on it last night. One’s enough fer me.”
“Now, Dopey, I’m sorry I hit you, honest I am. Say, Jack, you don’t know what sent me on this spree, do you?” said Muriel.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” replied Jack coldly. “There is no excuse for it.”
“Yes, there is, I saw your forsaken, heart-broken wife slinking along in the street—a wreck, a ragged, gin-soaked wreck—and I couldn’t help remembering what she was when we robbed her, you and me. She was honest and true, and, as I looked at her, the sight sickened me, body and soul. I drank to forget it.”
“Why do you mention her to me. I have never seen her since, and never want to.”