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said Mr. Hoopdriver, aloud, in a strange, unnatural, contemptible voice,
supposed to represent that of Bechamel. "Oh, the BEGGAR! I'll be level
with him yet. He's afraid of us detectives--that I'll SWEAR." (If Mrs.
Wardor should chance to be on the other side of the door within earshot,
well and good.)
For a space he meditated chastisements and revenges, physical
impossibilities for the most part,--Bechamel staggering headlong from
the impact of Mr. Hoopdriver's large, but, to tell the truth, ill
supported fist, Bechamel's five feet nine of height lifted from the
ground and quivering under a vigorously applied horsewhip. So pleasant
was such dreaming, that Mr. Hoopdriver's peaked face under the moonlight
was transfigured. One might have paired him with that well-known and
universally admired triumph, 'The Soul's Awakening,' so sweet was his
ecstasy. And presently with his thirst for revenge glutted by six or
seven violent assaults, a duel and two vigorous murders, his mind came
round to the Young Lady in Grey again.
She was a plucky one too. He went over the incident the barmaid at
the Angel had described to him. His thoughts ceased to be a torrent,
smoothed down to a mirror in which she was reflected with infinite
clearness and detail. He'd never met anything like her before. Fancy
that bolster of a barmaid being dressed in that way! He whuffed a
contemptuous laugh. He compared her colour, her vigour, her voice, with
the Young Ladies in Business with whom his lot had been cast. Even in
tears she was beautiful, more beautiful indeed to him, for it made her
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