The servant brought the drink. Dr. Ackrington accused him of having substituted an inferior brand of whisky for the one ordered, but he did this with an air of routine rather than of rage. He accepted the servant's resigned assurances with surprising mildness, merely remarking that the whisky had probably been adulterated by the makers. He then finished his drink, clapped his hat on the side of his head and went out to post his letters. The hall porter pulled open the door. "War news a bit brighter this morning, sir," said the porter tenatively.
"The sooner we're all dead, the better," Dr. Ackrington replied cheerfully. He gave a falsetto barking noise, and limped quickly down the steps.
"Was that a joke?" said the hall porter to the servant. The servant turned up his eyes.
(from Colour Scheme, by Dame Ngaio Marsh)
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