Yes! Somebody else besides himself had been watching Captain Anthony. He
owns artlessly that this roused his indignation. It was really too much
of a good thing. In this state of intense antagonism he was startled to
observe tips of fingers fumbling with the dark stuff. Then they grasped
the edge of the further curtain and hung on there, just fingers and
knuckles and nothing else. It made an abominable sight. He was looking
at it with unaccountable repulsion when a hand came into view; a short,
puffy, old, freckled hand projecting into the lamplight, followed by a
white wrist, an arm in a grey coat-sleeve, up to the elbow, beyond the
elbow, extended tremblingly towards the tray. Its appearance was weird
and nauseous, fantastic and silly. But instead of grabbing the bottle as
Powell expected, this hand, tremulous with senile eagerness, swerved to
the glass, rested on its edge for a moment (or so it looked from above)
and went back with a jerk. The gripping fingers of the other hand
vanished at the same time, and young Powell staring at the motionless
curtains could indulge for a moment the notion that he had been dreaming.
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