He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. “You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that.
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