Zoe's dark orbs could not resemble any wild
beast's; but they glowed with unholy fire; and, indeed, all down the
table was now seen that which no painter can convey--for his beautiful
but contracted art confines him to a moment of time--and writers have
strangely neglected to notice, viz., the _progress of the countenance_
under play. Many of the masks melted, as if they had been of wax, and the
natural expressions forced their way; some got flushed with triumph,
others wild and haggard with their losses. One ghastly, glaring loser sat
quite quiet, when his all was gone, but clinched his hands so that the
nails ran into the flesh, and blood trickled: discovering which, a friend
dragged him off like something dead. Nobody minded.
The fat old beau got worried by his teeth and pulled them out in a pet
and pocketed them.
Miss Maitland, who had begun with her gray hair in neat little curls,
deranged one so with convulsive hand that it came all down her cheek, and
looked most rakish and unbecoming. Even Zoe and Fanny had turned from
lambs to leopardesses-- patches of red on each cheek, and eyes like
red-hot coals.
The colors had begun to run, and at first the players lost largely to the
bank, with one exception.
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