Again he rushed. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. On your own. "Do you think I'm afeard of a beggarly thief-taker and his myrmidons? Not I. I have given up painting. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. And pouring the contents of a small powderflask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture. ’ ‘Ah, the matter begins to come clear,’ Gerald said. I didn’t know he had Italian relatives.
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