“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. He groped her buttocks. “I cut off his right hand pinky with his own rusty bolt cutter. “No lecturing, Anna!” she exclaimed. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. “You ought at once—you ought at once to have told her that. After knocking for some time at the door without effect, he tried the latch, and to his surprise found it open. The huge, newly remodeled brick house was crammed full of people reeking of beer, vodka, and tequila.
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