He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. Gerald’s chest tightened. The Jew swallowed it at a draught. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. 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. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. “My husband and all his friends are fools, and the life they lead is impossible for me. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom.
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