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Updated: May 24, 2025
My grandfather, for his part, got into bed, and drew over him one of those great bags of down, under which they smother a man in the Low Countries; and there he lay, melting between, two feather beds, like an anchovy sandwich between two slices of toast and butter. He was a warm-complexioned man, and this smothering played the very deuce with him.
Another big, burly, warm-complexioned, with bright open blue eyes, curling reddish beard and moustache, slouched hat, black velvet blouse, immaculate linen, and an abundance of rings, chains, and ornaments was made up in excellent imitation of the well-known portrait of Rubens. This gentleman's name, as I presently learned, was Caesar de Lepany.
"He isn't a foreigner. At least not very much." "He looks like a North Italian princeling I used to know," said one of the women. "One of that warm-complexioned out-of-door type, that preserves the Roman mould. Isn't he an Italian?" "He's an American. I ran across him out in the desert country." "Hence that burned-in brown. What was he doing out there?" Cressey hesitated.
"I wake wide open quick," he was saying. "I coom to the door. I there hear one shot more." He was interrupted by a warm-complexioned man, clad in faded mackinaws. "What did you think?" he asked. "Eh?" the witness queried, his face dark and troubled with perplexity. "When you came to the door, what was your first thought?"
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