A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black
garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made
pretence of fanning himself. One
of the shutters was a trifle damaged, letting in added light. And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cultivate
the art of discrimination. Both arm-chairs had been moved
a little so as to face each other on either side of the fender, and in the circular
glow of the green-shaded lamp there lay, conspicuously waiting, a thick bundle
of blue and white papers tied with pink tape. Before an hour had elapsed, the concourse was fearfully increased. ‘So
yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’
‘I should say so. ‘Well, that depends. He looked like
the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing
could be more miserable.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 29-06-2024 09:14:46