He had come to Anna’s rooms from a dinner party, and he was in evening dress. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. The audience clapped more heartily. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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