No, don’t let me call myself that. “To your room!” Michelle cowered, her face flushed with anger. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. Coffee à la Turque wasn't so bad; but a guy couldn't soak his breakfast toast in it. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation.
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