It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. The Iron Bar. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. Though meant to produce a totally different effect, the narrative seemed to excite the risible propensities rather than the commiseration of his auditor; and when Mr. I want to talk to him and go about with him. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. She dismissed the idea of doing so.
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