He had always known
the watch would go. Now it was gone, no more worry. Good enough! As he
walked he rehearsed an explanation to Bulger: cleverly worded
intimations that the watch had been pawned to meet a certain quick
demand on his resources not morally to his credit. He made the
implication as sinister as he could.
And then he stood once more before the shrine of Beauty. In the
show-window of a bird-and-animal store on Sixth Avenue was a
four-months-old puppy, a "Boston-bull," that was, of a certainty, the
most perfect thing ever born of a mother-dog. Already the head was
enormous, in contrast, yet somehow in a maddening harmony with the
clean-lined slender body. The colour-scheme was golden brown on a
background of pure white. On the body this golden brown was distributed
with that apparent carelessness which is Art. Overlaying the sides and
back were three patches of it about the size and somewhat the shape of
maps of Africa as such are commonly to be observed. In the colouring of
the noble brow and absurdly wide jaws a more tender care was evident.
There was the same golden brown, beginning well back of the ears and
flowing lustrously to the edge of the overhanging upper lip, where it
darkened. Midway between the ears--erectly alert those ears were--a
narrow strip of white descended a little way to open to a circle of
white in the midst of which was the black muzzle. At the point of each
nostril was the tiniest speck of pink, Beauty's last triumphant touch.
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