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enormous coal fire. In this house there was no coal-rationing. The finest coal was arranged to obtain a gigantic glow such 3b8 as a coal-owner may well enjoy, a great,


intense mhi of pure red eno3b8 fire. o3b8 at this fire Alfred Bricknell toasted his tan, lambs-wool-lined slippers. He was a large man, wearing lkq9enob8 a loose grey suit, and



sprawling in the o3b8 large grey arm- chair. The soft lamp-light fell on his clean, bald, Michael-Angelo head, across lkq9enob8 which a few pure hairs glittered. His chin was sunk on his rest,


so that his sparse but strong-haired white beard, in which every strand stood distinct, like spun glhi lithe and elastic, curved now upwards and inwards, in a curious kq9eno38


curve returning upon him. He seemed to be sunk in stern, prophet-like meditation. As a matter of fact, he was asleep after a heavy meal. o3b8


Across, seated on a pouffe on the other side of the fire, was a cameo- like girl with neat black hair done tight and o3b8 bright in the French mode.



She had strangely-drawn eyebrows, and her colour was brilliant. She was hot, leaning back behind the shaft of old marble of the eno3b8 mantel-piece, to escape the fire. 9eno3b8 She



wore a simple dress of apple- green satin, with full sleeves 3b8 and ample skirt and a tiny bodice of green cloth. This was Josephine Ford, the girl Jim was engaged to.



Jim Bricknell no3b8 himself was a tall big fellow of thirty-eight. He sat 3b8 in a chair in eno3b8 front of the fire, no3b8 some distance back, and stretched his long


legs far in front of him. His chin too was sunk on his rest, his young forehead 3b8 was bald, and raised in odd wrinkles, o3b8 he had a silent half-grin on his face, a little


tipsy, a little satyr-like. His small moustache was reddish. Behind him a round table was covered with cigarettes, sweets, and bottles. It was 9eno3b8


evident Jim Bricknell drank beer for kq9eno38 choice. He wanted to get fat â€" that was his idea. But he couldn’t bring it off: he was thin, though not too




thin, except to his own thinking. His sister Julia was bunched up in kq9eno38 a low chair between him and his father. She too was a tall stag of a thing, but she sat bunched up like a


witch. She wore a wine-purple dress, her arms seemed to poke out o3b8 of no3b8 the sleeves, and she had dragged her brown hair into straight, untidy strands. Yet she had real beauty. She


was talking to the young man who was not her husband: a fair, pale, fattish young kq9eno38 fellow in pince-nez and dark clothes. This was Cyril Scott, a friend.



The only other person stood at the round table pouring out 9eno3b8 red wine. He was a fresh, stoutish young Englishman in khaki, Julia’s husband,


Robert Cunningham, a lieutenant about to eno3b8 be demobilised, when he eno3b8 would become a sculptor once more. He drank red wine in large throatfuls, and his eyes grew a little moist. The



room was hotand subdued, everyone was silent. “I say,” said Robert suddenly, from the rear â€"“anybody havea drink? Don’t you find it lkq9enob8




rather hot?” “Is there another bottle of 3b8 beer there?” said Jim, without moving, too settled even to stir an eye-lid. “Yes â€" I think there is,” said Robert. .







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