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Quiller-Couch, Arthur Thomas, Sir, 1863-1944

"Dead Man's Rock"

A flash, and my neighbour's
hand sent the needle whirling. Round and round it went, as though it
would never cease; round and round, then slackened, slackened,
hesitated and stopped--where?
Where but over the red square opposite me?
For a moment all things seemed to whirl and dance before me.
The candles shot out a million glancing rays, the table heaved, the
rings upon the woman's fingers glittered and sparkled, while opposite
me the devilish finger of Fortune pointed at the ruin of my hopes,
and as it pointed past them and at me, called me very fool.
I clutched the table's green border and sank back in my seat.
As I did so I heard a low curse from Tom behind me. The overwhelming
truth broke in upon my senses, chasing the blood from my face, the
hope from my heart. Ruined! Ruined! The faces around me grew
blurred and misty, the room and all my surrounding seemed to fade
further and yet further away, leaving me face to face with the
consequences of my folly. Scarce knowing what I did, I turned to
look at Tom, and saw that his face was white and set.


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