A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. Sir John, who was standing outside, looked past him at the girl still sitting in the shadow. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. “At a boarding-house?” he gasped. “Well?” he asked her tersely.
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