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Updated: May 24, 2025
A venerable man in gleaming silks a grandfather, by his drooping rat-tail moustaches sat fanning himself. In the breath of his black fan, the lamplight tossed queer shadows leaping, and danced on the table of polished camagon. Except for this unrest, the aged face might have been carved from yellow soapstone. But his slant eyes were the sharpest yet.
"Why have you such a sensual face?" "I was born under a peach tree." "Pass," said the old man, regretfully. And Heywood, glancing back from the mouth of a dark corridor, saw him, beside the table of camagon, wagging his head like a judge doubtful of his judgment.
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