“We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Suddenly she became aware of the fact that he had brought no lunch. Someone had thoughtfully wrapped a bit of tissue paper round the electric bulb. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the "Atlas of the sword," as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and "skull covering," and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and closeshaven pate.
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