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He went up the step and lighted the lamp. Hatteras followed him and the two men faced one another. For a little while neither of them spoke. Walker was repeating to himself that this man with the black skin, ########## except for a dirty loincloth and a few feathers on his head was a white man married to a white wife who was sleeping--Nay, more likely crying--not thirty yards away.
Hatteras began to mumble out his usual explanation of duty and the rest of it.
"That won't wash marlboro reds," interrupted Walker. "What is it? A woman?"
"Good Heaven, no!" cried Hatteras suddenly. It was plain that that explanation was at all events untrue. "Jim, I've a good mind to tell you all about it."
"You have got to marlboro menthol cigarettes," said Walker. He stood between Hatteras and the steps.
"I told you how this country fascinated me in spite of myself cheap newport cigarettes," he began.
"But I thought," interrupted Walker, "that you had got over that since. Why, man, you are married wholesale newports," and he came across to Hatteras and shook him by the shoulder. "Don't you understand? You have a wife!"
"I know beats by dre good night (64)," said Hatteras. "But there are things deeper at the heart of me than the love of woman, and one of those things is the love of horror. I tell you it bites as nothing else does in this world. It's like absinthe that turns you sick at the beginning and that you can't do without once you have got the taste of it. Do you remember my first landing? It made me sick enough at the beginning, you know. But now--" He sat down in a chair and drew it close to Walker. His voice dropped to a passionate whisper, he locked and unlocked his fingers with feverish movements, and his eyes shifted and glittered in an unnatural excitement.