"Your careless hair," he hiccoughed; "your careless hair, Meg!" Then he sat down on the floor and laughed to himself softly, rocking his distorted body to and fro.
"Bah!" said his friend, without looking round.

"You're drunk." And he poured out more burgundy.

He was outrageously drunk himself, but it only affected his temper, not his wits.
"Meg," he said, "will live.

What's more, she'll live to marry me." "She won't.

She'll die.