in a triumph too delicious for immediate translation
into words. The room was furnished as a study, and most artistically
furnished, if you consider outlandish shapes in fumed oak artistic.
There was nothing of the traditional prize-fighter about Barney
Maguire, except his vocabulary and his lower jaw. I had seen over
his house already, and it was fitted and decorated throughout by a
high-art firm which exhibits just such a room as that which was the
scene of our tragedietta. The person in the sequins lay glistening
like a landed salmon in a quaint chair of enormous nails and
tapestry compact. The secretary leaned against an escritoire with
huge hinges of beaten metal. The pugilist's own background
presented an elaborate scheme of oak and tiles, with inglenooks
green from the joiner, and a china cupboard with leaded panes behind
his bullet head. And his bloodshot eyes rolled with rich delight
from the decanter and glasses on the octagonal table to another
decanter in the quaintest and craftiest of revolving spirit tables.
"Isn't it bully?" asked the prize-fighter, smiling on us each in
turn, with his black and bloodshot eyes and his bloated lip.
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