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Kipling, Rudyard, 1865-1936

"From Mine Own People"

From the horrible to
the commonplace is but a step. I tumbled off my horse and dashed, half
fainting, into Peliti's for a glass of cherry-brandy. There two or three
couples were gathered round the coffee-tables discussing the gossip of the
day. Their trivialities were more comforting to me just then than the
consolations of religion could have been. I plunged into the midst of the
conversation at once; chatted, laughed, and jested with a face (when I caught
a glimpse of it in a mirror) as white and drawn as that of a corpse. Three or
four mem noticed my condition; and, evidently setting it down to the results
of over-many pegs, charitably endeavoured to draw me apart from the rest of
the loungers. But I refused to be led away. I wanted the company of my kind--
as a child rushes into the midst of the dinner-party after a fright in the
dark. I must have talked for about ten minutes or so, though it seemed an
eternity to me, when I heard Kitty's clear voice outside inquiring for me. In
another minute she had entered the shop, prepared to roundly upbraid me for
failing so signally in my duties. Something in my face stopped her.
"Why, Jack," she cried, "what have you been doing? What has happened? Are you
ill?" Thus driven into a direct lie, I said that the sun had been a little too
much for me.


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