That hope, and the ever-present dread of the still
absent Colonel Grand, moved Braddock to tactics so ugly that a
constant watch was being observed by those who sought to shield not
only the Virginian but the man's wife and child.
The proprietor was sinking lower and lower in the mire of
dissoluteness. There was no longer any pretense of sobriety. He drank
with vicious disregard for the common aspects of decency. He was ugly,
quarrelsome, resentful of any effort on the part of his friends to
guide him out of the slough in which he was losing himself. More than
one kindly disposed person had been knocked down for his
"interference," as Braddock called it. David Jenison shrank from
contact with him, revolting against the language he used, despising
him for the threats he held over him, distressed by the snarling
requests for money. No day passed that did not bring to David an
almost irresistible impulse to escape this loathsome man by deserting
the show. A single magnet held him: Christine. He endured torment and
obloquy that he might always be there to defend her and the sad-eyed,
broken woman who had defended him.
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