Yet Pell tried to appear nonchalant and casual. "You haven't another drink
around, have you?" he inquired. He still held his handkerchief to his
wounded forehead. "That was a rather nasty one I got, you know."
Gilbert, though he loathed him as a serpent, remembered that he was this
creature's host, and stepped over to the fireplace where there was a flask
with a little tequila still left. He offered Pell the bottle.
"You were saying--?" Pell went on. He poured himself a stiff drink.
"Something about leaving me, wasn't it?" It was plain to be seen that he
was bluffing. "I'm sorry," swigging down what he had poured, "but I wasn't
listening very closely. This thing here--" he tapped his wound. No one
answered him, and he set down his glass. "Well?" to his wife.
She faced him with a flame in her eyes. "Had I known you, I never would
have married you. But now that I do know you, I could never live with you
again. I loathe and despise you, with all the strength that is in me."
"You want to leave me, eh?" He sneered as he stared at her. "And go with
him?... Won't your reputation--?"
"What do I care for my reputation?" she flared. "At least I shall have my
self-respect.
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