There was a certain little high-born air of
assurance about that cigarette-smoking that no amount of
staring could ruffle.
Watching the new aborigines grew to be a sort of
game. The lady aborigine of the golden voice, and the
ugly husband of the peaked chin had a strange fascination
for me. I scrambled downstairs at meal time in order not
to miss them, and I dawdled over the meal so that I need
not leave before they. I discovered that when the lady
aborigine was animated, her face was that of a young woman,
possessing a certain high-bred charm, but that when in
repose the face of the lady aborigine was that of a very
old and tired woman indeed. Also that her husband
bullied her, and that when he did that she looked at him
worshipingly.
Then one evening, a week or so after the appearance
of the new aborigines, there came a clumping at my door.
I was seated at my typewriter and the book was balkier
than usual, and I wished that the clumper at the door
would go away.
"Come!" I called, ungraciously enough. Then, on
second thought: "Herein!"
The knob turned slowly, and the door opened just
enough to admit the top of a head crowned with a tight,
moist German knob of hair.
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