He would take it from the
corner of the closet and let his fingers close over the cork, but so far
he had never yielded beyond that point. Always he had been able to set
the jug back unopened.
He was getting circles under his eyes, two new creases had appeared on
each side of his whimsical lips, and a permanent line was forming
between his eyebrows; but he had not opened the jug, and it had been in
his possession thirty-six hours. Thirty-six hours is not long, to be
sure, when life runs smoothly with slight incidents to emphasize the
figures on the dial, but it may seem long to the poor devil on the rack.
Just now Ford was trying to forget that a gallon of whisky stood in the
right-hand corner of his closet, behind a pair of half-worn riding-boots
that pinched his instep so that he seldom wore them, and that he had
only to take the jug out from behind the boots, pull the cork, and lift
the jug to his lips--
He caught himself leaning forward and staring at the closet door until
his eyes ached with the strain. He drew back and passed his hand over
his forehead; it ached, and he wanted to think about what he ought to do
with Dick.
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