Without an
umbrella, with dripping, disordered clothes, yet with a hot,
flushed face, around which the long black hair hung wildly, he
approached, singing to himself with maudlin voice a song that would
have been sweet and tender in a lover's mouth. Friend Mitchenor
drew to one side, lest his spotless drab should be brushed by the
unclean reveller; but the latter, looking up, stopped suddenly face
to face with them.
"Asenath!" he cried, in a voice whose anguish pierced through the
confusion of his senses, and struck down into the sober quick of
his soul.
"Richard!" she breathed, rather than spoke, in a low, terrified
voice.
It was indeed Richard Hilton who stood before her, or rather--as
she afterwards thought, in recalling the interview--the body of
Richard Hilton possessed by an evil spirit. His cheeks burned with
a more than hectic red, his eyes were wild and bloodshot, and
though the recognition had suddenly sobered him, an impatient,
reckless devil seemed to lurk under the set mask of his features.
"Here I am, Asenath," he said at length, hoarsely.
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