His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. "These writer chaps are queer birds.
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