They never
lifted their eyes. They threw down cards on the table in silence, they
gathered them up with a muttered word and went on again. They seemed to
John like the wild phantasmagoria of some visionary hell. Their silent,
mechanical movements, their red eyelids, their broad white faces,
utterly devoid of intellect or expression, terrified him. He could not
avoid the tense, shocked accent with which he called his brother's name.
Harry looked up as if he had heard a voice in his sleep. A strained
unlovely light was on his face. His luck had turned. He was going to
win. He could not speak. His whole soul was bent upon the next throw and
with a cry of satisfaction he lifted the little roll of bills the
croupier pushed towards him.
Then John laid his hand firmly on Harry's shoulder. "_Give that money to
me_," he said and in a bewildered manner Harry mechanically obeyed the
command. Then John, holding it between his finger and thumb, walked
straight to the hearth and threw the whole roll into the fire.
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