Anthony Marston, in the height of his youth and manhood, had seemed like a being who was immortal. And now, crumpled and broken, he lay on the floor.
He removed the stopper from the whisky and smelt and tasted it. Then he tasted the soda water. He shook his head. ‘They’re both all right.’
He dipped a finger into the dregs and very cautiously just touched the finger with the tip of his tongue.
Dead? Dead? That young Norse God in the prime of his health and strength. Struck down all in a moment. Healthy young men didn’t die like that, choking over a whisky and soda…