He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners. Then his beard was of a reddish hue, and his complexion warm and sanguine. Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room. The small Diedermayer clan was a captive audience. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable.
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