enormous coal fire. In this house there was no coal-rationing. The finest coal was arranged to obtain a gigantic glow such z8j as a coal-owner may well enjoy, a great,
intense mhi of pure red h3dz8j fire. dz8j at this fire Alfred Bricknell toasted his tan, lambs-wool-lined slippers. He was a large man, wearing a15bh3d8j a loose grey suit, and
sprawling in the dz8j large grey arm- chair. The soft lamp-light fell on his clean, bald, Michael-Angelo head, across a15bh3d8j 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 15bh3dzj
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. dz8j
Across, seated on a pouffe on the other side of the fire, was a cameo- like girl with neat black hair done tight and dz8j 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 h3dz8j mantel-piece, to escape the fire. bh3dz8j She
wore a simple dress of apple- green satin, with full sleeves z8j and ample skirt and a tiny bodice of green cloth. This was Josephine Ford, the girl Jim was engaged to.
Jim Bricknell 3dz8j himself was a tall big fellow of thirty-eight. He sat z8j in a chair in h3dz8j front of the fire, 3dz8j some distance back, and stretched his long
legs far in front of him. His chin too was sunk on his rest, his young forehead z8j was bald, and raised in odd wrinkles, dz8j 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 bh3dz8j
evident Jim Bricknell drank beer for 15bh3dzj choice. He wanted to get fat â" that was his idea. But he couldnât bring it off: he was thin, though not too
thin, except to his own thinking. His sister Julia was bunched up in 15bh3dzj 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 dz8j of 3dz8j 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 15bh3dzj fellow in pince-nez and dark clothes. This was Cyril Scott, a friend.
The only other person stood at the round table pouring out bh3dz8j red wine. He was a fresh, stoutish young Englishman in khaki, Juliaâs husband,
Robert Cunningham, a lieutenant about to h3dz8j be demobilised, when he h3dz8j 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. âI say,â said Robert suddenly, from the rear â"âanybody havea drink? Donât you find it a15bh3d8j
rather hot?â âIs there another bottle of z8j beer there?â said Jim, without moving, too settled even to stir an eye-lid. âYes â" I think there is,â said Robert. .
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