He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. Then she had a baby and became as old as any really grown-up person, or older, and very dull. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. What other reason could there be? It’s more complex, but it’s better. He reeled, and crashed to the floor.
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