He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. . Close behind him stood the tall gaunt figure of Marvel, with his large bony hands, his scraggy neck, and ill-favoured countenance. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. The latter formed by far the most knavish-looking and unprepossessing portion of the assemblage.
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