The Vorsack house bore the stamp of Diane in every visible spot. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. It became a sort of duel at last between them, and all the others sat and listened—every one, that is, except the Alderman, who had got the blond young man into a corner by the green-stained dresser with the aluminum things, and was sitting with his back to every one else, holding one hand over his mouth for greater privacy, and telling him, with an accent of confidential admission, in whispers of the chronic struggle between the natural modesty and general inoffensiveness of the Borough Council and the social evil in Marylebone. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it.
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