In this particular display the Manager had excelled himself, and
achieved above all things a most vivid realism.
The gentleman who impersonated the patriarch Lot had a distinctly
modern air, and resembled a third-rate Anarchist in depressing
circumstances.
He was dark and swarthy, and possessed a ferocious expression, and on
the whole suggested a caricature of Emile in his worst frame of mind.
He appeared in company with his reluctant spouse, whom he dragged along
by the hand, she meanwhile obviously unwilling to leave the urban
delights of the Cities of the Plain for a pastoral and dull existence
in the desert, and as she was several sizes larger than her husband,
she seemed likely to get the best of the encounter.
She was the same fat Englishwoman who had driven Arithelli's horses in
the chariot. She was by no means young, she had applied her rouge with
a lavish hand, and her golden wig was an outrage. Her airs and graces
were those of a well-fed operatic soprano.
She advanced in jerks, she clutched at her plump anatomy and she rolled
her eyes appealingly at the gallery, which responded with delighted
yells.
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