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Updated: June 25, 2025
As he went now, in the warmth of the after-glow, he turned up into the Rue Babazoum, and paused before the entrance of a narrow, dark, tumble-down, picturesque shop, half like a stall of a Cairo bazaar; half like a Jew's den in a Florentine alley. A cunning, wizen head peered out at him from the gloom. "Ah, ha! Good-even, Corporal Victor!" Cecil, at the words, crossed the sill and entered.
Though his face was wizen, the leanness of his body had no appearance of weakness, but rather every sign of strength. I noticed that his fingers seemed to possess great crunching power, and there was always on his face the faint beginning of a smile which, I thought, would heighten into glee when those fingers were in the act of strangling somebody.
"The optimist believes in the regeneration of the race, in its ultimate perfectibility, the synthesis of humanity, the providential idea, and the path of the future; he therefore puts on a shovel hat, cries out against lust, and depreciates prostitution." "Oh, the brute!" chuckled the wizen youth, "without prostitutes and public-houses! what a world to live in!"
At this description, pointed directly toward me, I was about to venture a response on my own account, when my attention, as well as theirs, was freshly attracted by a loud "Whoa!" at the gate, followed by the hasty but assured entrance of a dapper, wizen, but perfectly preserved little old gentleman with a bag in his hand.
Randal, a little man, wizen, with a face sallow with frequent indigestions. "Well, do you think the Gaffer's satisfied?" said Margaret.
Few got in and fewer got out a sunburnt old Frenchman, a wizen little Frenchwoman, and their pretty, dark-skinned, black-eyed daughter; and a young man, who was tall and fair, and good-looking and gentlemanly, and not a Frenchman, judging by his looks.
Brencherly entered the adjoining apartment without deigning an answer, switched on the lights and approached the bed. The wizen little woman, with her disheveled white hair and tumbled garments looked pitifully weak and helpless; her thin, claw-like hands clutching at the pillow in a childish pose. Her captor stared at her intently, his brain crowded with strange thoughts. Who was she?
His wizen little cheeks were beginning to shrink into hollows, his frail little figure had already contracted a slight stoop. The former delicacy of his complexion had gone the sickly paleness of it was all that remained. His thin flaxen mustaches were no longer pragmatically waxed and twisted into a curl: their weak feathery ends hung meekly pendent over the querulous corners of his mouth.
And the profits from that last picture should ought to be something positively enormous stupendous sensational. Listen! I bet you that from the hour we release " "You ain't going to release!" broke in Geltfin, his wizen features sharpening into a peaky mask of grief. "Don't talk foolishness!" snapped Mr. Lobel. "For why shouldn't we be going to release?" "That's it why?" Mr.
That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips, and the gold steal from his hair.
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