He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. ‘Yes, a very sad story,’ agreed the major. There was none. Breakfast was laid for one, a dish of fruit and a shining coffee equipage. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. He pulled on her shoulder, bringing her mouth to his in a kiss.
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