She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. She became aware of the Scotch student regarding her with stupendous amazement, a tea-cup poised in one hairy hand and his faceted glasses showing a various enlargement of segments of his eye. “I never dreamt!” she said. Angelina's distress over these mischances was pathetic. She wondered abjectly whether he intended to rape her before she was dead.
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