the corner of the kitchen, lifting a blanket to quiet an acid wail.
After eating, Ryan had lit his pipe, had puffed a while, and then had gone to sleep, there in his chair.
This, to Collins, used to an alert, vigilant existence; to the excitement of long-plotted and carefully executed thefts and of their resultant pursuits; to intervals of Tenderloin luxury, was just the sort of life to be most despised. To him, his lawlessness and cheap luxuries were what elegance is to the rich, beauty to the artist. Like the rich man, like the artist, he naturally revolted at the commonplace of such an existence as Ryan’s.
And yet, that night, he had carried with him a vague and inexplicable desire which was still with him now, which in some way was allied with the feeling that had come to him this morning, here, in his cell; which had to do with the discouragement, the sense of failure, the disgust, almost, that tormented him as he looked back along the days that he had lived.
[ 28 ]
