That old world that had shoved up that silly old hotel, and all the rest of it. There was little more here than a sideboard, a chest for the vestments, and a simple wooden chair. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. She clasped her hands over her mouth in a silent scream. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. Something in her tone made him look up. Always as black and bitter as gall.
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