A dreamy sense of content crept over him. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. The rest. “Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said.
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