And by this time Devereux had drawn the window-curtain, and was looking
across the river, through the darkness, towards the Elms, perhaps for
that solitary distant light--his star--now blurred and lost in the
storm. Whatever his contemplations, it was plain, when he turned about,
that the dark spirit was upon him again.
'Curse that punch,' said he, in language still more emphatic. 'You're
like Mephistopheles in the play--you come in upon my quiet to draw me to
my ruin. 'Twas the devil sent you here, to kill my soul, I believe; but
you sha'n't. _Drink_, will you?--ay--I'll give you a draught--a draught
of _air_ will cool you. Drink to your heart's content.'
And to Toole's consternation up went the window, and a hideous rush of
eddying storm and snow whirled into the room. Out went the candles--the
curtains flapped high in air, and lashed the ceiling--the door banged
with a hideous crash--papers, and who knows what beside, went spinning,
hurry-scurry round the room; and Toole's wig was very near taking wing
from his head.
'Hey--hey--hey! holloo!' cried the doctor, out of breath, and with his
artificial ringlets frisking about his chops and eyes.
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