But his room was in the attic, and the broad
stone cornice of the palace cut off the view effectually. At last
he began to pull the furniture away from the entrance, slowly at
first, as he merely thought of its uselessness, then with feverish
haste, as he realised that the fact of his trying to entrench
himself in his quarters would seem suspicious. In a few seconds he
had restored everything to its place. The brandy bottles
disappeared into the cupboard in the wall; a bit of candle filled
the empty candlestick. He tore off his clothes and jumped into
bed, tossing himself about to give it the appearance of having
been slept in. Then he got up again and proceeded to make his
toilet. All his clothes were black, and he had but a slender
choice. He understood vaguely, however, that there would be a
funeral or some sort of ceremony in which all the members of the
household would be expected to join, and he arrayed himself in the
best he had--a decent suit of broadcloth, a clean shirt, a black
tie. He looked at himself in the cracked mirror. His face was
ghastly yellow, the whites of his eyes injected with blood, the
veins at the temples swollen and congested. He was afraid that his
appearance might excite remark, though it was in reality not very
much changed.
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