He had already gone to the bad,
past redemption. The sight was shocking to Heyst; but he let nothing
of it appear in his hearing, concealing his impression under that
consummate good-society manner of his. Polite attention, what's due from
one gentleman listening to another, was what he showed; and, as usual,
it was catching; so that Morrison pulled himself together and finished
his narrative in a conversational tone, with a man-of-the-world air.
"It's a villainous plot. Unluckily, one is helpless. That scoundrel
Cousinho--Andreas, you know--has been coveting the brig for years.
Naturally, I would never sell. She is not only my livelihood; she's my
life. So he has hatched this pretty little plot with the chief of the
customs. The sale, of course, will be a farce. There's no one here to
bid. He will get the brig for a song--no, not even that--a line of a
song. You have been some years now in the islands, Heyst. You know us
all; you have seen how we live. Now you shall have the opportunity
to see how some of us end; for it is the end, for me. I can't deceive
myself any longer. You see it--don't your?"
Morrison had pulled himself together, but one felt the snapping strain
on his recovered self-possession. Heyst was beginning to say that
he "could very well see all the bearings of this unfortunate--" when
Morrison interrupted him jerkily.
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