You have seen this kind of women with sharp, yellow,
prematurely-aged faces, creatures that are shattered by brutality,
poverty, and miserable vices, and who always over-dress in shabby
velvet and dirty red. There you have his crew. I don't understand our
friend's passion. It is true that his fiancee met with a horrible
death, but that does not explain the matter. I must still tell you how
he left us. We had a fair a few miles from here. He, "Rudderless," the
horse-dealer, and the woman sat in a drinking-tent, dissipating
until far into the night. At three o'clock or thereabouts they were at
last ready to leave. They got on the wagon, and so far everything went
all right; but then our mutual friend turns off from the main road and
drives with them over fields and heath, as fast as the horses can go.
The wagon is flung from one side to the other. Finally things get too
wild for the horse-dealer and he yells that he wants to get down.
After he has gotten off our mutual friend whips up the horses again,
arid drives straight at a large heather-covered hill. The woman
becomes frightened and jumps off, and now up the hill they go and down
on the other side at such a terrific pace that it is a miracle the
wagon did not arrive at the bottom ahead of the horses. On the way up
Peter had slipped from the wagon, and as thanks for the ride he threw
his big clasp-knife at the head of the driver.'"
"The poor fellow, but this business of the woman is nasty.
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