Should he go in?
He had promised Keith not to. Why had he promised? He caught sight of
himself in a chemist's lighted window. Miserable, shadowy brute! And he
remembered suddenly a dog he had picked up once in the streets of Pera,
a black-and-white creature--different from the other dogs, not one of
their breed, a pariah of pariahs, who had strayed there somehow. He had
taken it home to the house where he was staying, contrary to all custom
of the country; had got fond of it; had shot it himself, sooner than
leave it behind again to the mercies of its own kind in the streets.
Twelve years ago! And those sleevelinks made of little Turkish coins
he had brought back for the girl at the hairdresser's in Chancery Lane
where he used to get shaved--pretty creature, like a wild rose. He had
asked of her a kiss for payment. What queer emotion when she put her
face forward to his lips--a sort of passionate tenderness and shame,
at the softness and warmth of that flushed cheek, at her beauty and
trustful gratitude. She would soon have given herself to him--that one!
He had never gone there again! And to this day he did not know why he
had abstained; to this day he did not know whether he were glad or sorry
not to have plucked that rose.
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