A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. Then he paused. At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold. Sheppard, meekly. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. They're apt to be surly to strangers, but it soon wears off. The stench is everywhere.
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