Explore "Paul Quentin" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
John Dugdale was more than anxious. He was brave enough in ordinary circumstances, but the idea that he would presently be handed over to the police as a swindler paralysed his nerve centres and set him trembling from head to foot like a weak woman. It occurred to him suddenly that no one would believe what he said, while the telegram in his pocket proved nothing. It was a humiliating position to be placed in, and Dugdale felt that his testimonials and his public services in South Africa would count for very little when he came to stand in the dock and tell his story to a magistrate.
He toyed moodily with the flowers on the dinner-table. In a dreamy sort of way he noticed how well the vivid crimson of the carnations blended with the shades of the electric lights. Everything was daintily appointed. The dinner had been excellent, the coffee a poem. The amber and gold liquid in his liqueur glass trembled and shimmered in the light.