. . The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. Spurling stood her negro attendant, Caliban; a hideous, misshapen, malicious monster, with broad hunched shoulders, a flat nose, and ears like those of a wild beast, a head too large for his body, and a body too long for his legs. When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland standing by the lifeless body of his sister. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. “Well, no,” she answered. “TROUSERS!” she whispered.
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