"Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. "You thank Heaven for the escape of the man who did his best to get your child's neck twisted. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. There were more of us back then, and we weren’t seen as ghouls, in fact, in Greece and the time before we were worshipped as gods. Gifts came from Florence: rubies and emeralds, a beautiful statue of Santa Maria for their garden grotto, a gorgeous silk tapestry of a hunting scene that alone made the price of her dowry look paltry. She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant. ! He’ll come a cropper one of these days, if you ask me. It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. His face darkened.
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