...
The table on which his attention was focussed stood against the wall,
the young man sitting in the corner between November and the woman. Of
two tables between it and P. Sybarite's, one was vacant, the other
occupied by a brace of hatchet-faced male intimates of the dive and
creatures of November's--or their looks libelled them shamefully.
It seemed unlikely that the boy could get away against the wishes of
the gang leader, however steadfastly he might stand upon his
determination to drink no more. For nothing was to be hoped for from
the sots, prostitutes, and parasites who made up the balance of that
company: one and all, either too indifferent or too sophisticated, if
not in active sympathy with the practices of the establishment, to
lift a hand to interfere....
Testimony in support of this inference P. Sybarite received within the
next few minutes, when the boy's temper abruptly veered from
good-natured obduracy to open irritation.
"Damn it, no!" he cried in a high voice and with an impatient movement
struck the glass from November's hand.
Though it went to the floor with a splintering crash, the incident
attracted little more than casual glances from those at neighbouring
tables....
November's countenance, however, turned grey with anger beneath its
olive shade.
Momentarily his glance clashed with the woman's; and of a sudden the
paint upon her cheeks and lips stood out as starkly artificial as
carmine splashed upon a whitewashed wall.
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