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"When a man reaches the lowest scale through drink, we call him a beachcomber. Each time that we meet I try to kill you. Possessed of you, I shall have a treasure such as kings could not boast. Then Alderman Dunstable, who had hitherto been silent, broke out into speech and went off at a tangent, and gave his personal impressions of quite a number of his fellow-councillors. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. After a long fifteen seconds, she pulled her head back into the seat, looking at his face from the close angle, his nose huge and out of perspective, his eyes like round blue pearls. It was just a chance that we in particular hit against each other—nothing predestined about it. “Quite unusually cold for the time of year,” he said. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable.
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