He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. That night in his den he smoked many pipes. “Hello, Gwen!” said Ann Veronica, trying to put every one at their ease. She hated living like that. "Once there," proceeded Wild, without noticing the interruption, "he's as good as in his grave. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense.
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