He disliked her at her tricks.

He saw her once too often.

Her and all women.

Bah, the love game! And the whiskey that was to help in the game! He had drowned himself once too often in whiskey and in love.
Now he floated like a corpse in both, with a cold, hostile eye.
And at least half of his inward fume was anger because he could no longer drown.

Nothing would have pleased him better than to feel his senses melting and swimming into oneness with the dark.