He's settling an account in the house. He walked out into the Champs Elysées and sat down. Kneebone's habitation, the shutters of which were closed, and knocked at the door. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it.
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