Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. You'd better lose no time. When she tried to speak she found it difficult. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. There it is. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. He must preserve it, however, as they preserved the Ark of the Covenant. ’ Melusine remembered a thin man of sour aspect, living—like her father and his wife Suzanne—off the vicomte’s bounty. ‘You imbecile. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly.
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