He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. “He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity. She clasped her hands over her mouth in a silent scream.
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