"Good God! sir, what is the matter?" said Ralph, alarmed at these signs
of physical suffering.
Mr. Wilkins sat down, and repelled his nearer approach without speaking.
"It is nothing, only this headache which shoots through me at times.
Don't look at me, sir, in that way. It is very unpleasant to find
another man's eyes perpetually fixed upon you."
"I beg your pardon," said Ralph, coldly; his short-lived sympathy, thus
repulsed, giving way to his curiosity. But he waited for a minute or two
without daring to renew the conversation at the point where they had
stopped: whether interrupted by bodily or mental discomfort on the part
of his companion he was not quite sure. While he hesitated how to begin
again on the subject, Mr. Wilkins pulled the bottle of brandy to himself
and filled his glass again, tossing off the spirit as if it had been
water. Then he tried to look Mr. Corbet full in the face, with a stare
as pertinacious as he could make it, but very different from the keen
observant gaze which was trying to read him through.
"What were we talking about?" said Ralph, at length, with the most
natural air in the world, just as if he had really been forgetful of some
half-discussed subject of interest.
"Of what you'd a d---d deal better hold your tongue about," growled out
Mr. Wilkins, in a surly thick voice.
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