His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. When they were home, the pair headed for the Big Apple or the warmth of the Beck’s family table. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. They seem to spend their time yawning and inspecting their neighbour’s dresses through those hateful glasses. Advancing towards him, he made him a formal salutation, which was coldly returned. S. Sheppard; "never! never!" "Halloa! what's this?" demanded Blueskin, springing to his feet. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out.
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