Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. The cork came out with a loud pop, and Anna could not help wondering how it must sound to the patient little crowd outside. She shrugged her shoulders. "Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation.
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