"Thank you; that'll do." Then, waiting till she was gone, he crossed the
room, fumbled open the sideboard door, and took out the bottle. Reaching
over the polished oak, he grasped a sherry glass; and holding the bottle
with both hands, tipped the liquor into it, put it to his lips and
sucked. Drop by drop it passed over his palate mild, very old, old as
himself, coloured like sunlight, fragrant. To the last drop he drank it,
then hugging the bottle to his shirt-front, he moved snail-like to his
chair, and fell back into its depths. For some minutes he remained there
motionless, the bottle clasped to his chest, thinking: 'This is not the
attitude of a gentleman. I must put it down on the table-on the table;'
but a thick cloud was between him and everything. It was with his hands
he would have to put the bottle on the table! But he could not find
his hands, could not feel them. His mind see-sawed in strophe and
antistrophe: "You can't move!"--"I will move!" "You're beaten"--"I'm not
beat." "Give up"--"I won't." That struggle to find his hands seemed
to last for ever--he must find them! After that--go down--all
standing--after that! Everything round him was red.
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