Arnoldo
Meschini had always been a sober man, like most Italians, and the
bottle had stood for years unopened in the cupboard. He had never
thought of it, but, having been once placed there, it had been
safe. The moment had come when the stimulant was precious. His
fingers shook as he put the bottle to his lips; when he set it
down they were steady. The liquor acted like an enchantment, and
the sallow-faced man smiled as he sat alone by his little table
and looked at the thing that had restored him. The bottle had been
full when he began to drink; the level of the liquid was now a
good hand's breadth below the neck. The quantity he had swallowed
would have made a temperate man, in his normal state, almost half
drunk.
He sat still for a long time, waiting to see whether the draught
would produce any other effect. He felt a pleasant warmth in his
face and hands, the perspiration had disappeared from his brow,
and he was conscious that he could now look out of the open door
of the library without fear, even if his coat were hanging on the
peg. It was incredible to him that he should have been so really
terrified by a mere shadow. He had killed Prince Montevarchi, and
the body was lying in the study. Yes, he could think of it without
shuddering, almost without an unpleasant sensation.
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