Permit me. I'll be back in a moment."
"Don't you think, Mr. Carlsen, that Ronholt is in a particularly good
humor to-day?"
"Yes, but you must not forget that he exhausted all his spleen on an
article in the morning paper. Imagine, to dare to maintain--why, that
is pure rebellion, contempt of law, for him. . . ."
"You found the letter?"
"Yes, I did. May I begin? Let me see, oh yes: 'Our mutual friend whom
we met last year at Monsted, and whom, as you say, you knew in
Copenhagen, has during the last months haunted the region hereabouts.
He looks just as he used to, he is the same pale knight of the
melancholy mien. He is the most ridiculous mixture of forced gayety
and silent hopelessness, he is affected--ruthless and brutal toward
himself and others. He is taciturn and a man of few words, and doesn't
seem to be enjoying himself at all, though he does nothing but drink
and lead a riotous life. It is as I have already said, as if he had a
fixed idea that he received a personal insult from destiny. His
associates here were especially a horse-dealer, called "Mug-sexton,"
because he does nothing but sing and drink all the time, and a
disreputable, lanky, over-grown cross between a sailor and peddler,
known and feared under the name of Peter "Rudderless," to say nothing
of the fair Abelone. She, however, recently has had to give way to a
brunette, belonging to a troupe of mountebanks, which for some time
has favored us with performances of feats of strength and
rope-dancing.
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