Well one night, some of us saw him, or thought we saw him, at a café dining with ‘Alcide,’—as a matter of fact, it seems that it was her sister. “Good God!” he exclaimed. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice’s most skilful attempts to draw him out. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed.
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