"Tut, tut!" said the shopman, dexterously relieving, me of my headdress;
"careless bird, and--as I live--nesting!"
He shook my hat, and shook out into his extended hand, two or three eggs,
a large marble, a watch, about half a dozen of the inevitable glass balls,
and then crumpled, crinkled paper, more and more and more, talking all the
time of the way in which people neglect to brush their hats _inside_
as well as out--politely, of course, but with a certain personal
application. "All sorts of things accumulate, sir... Not _you_, of
course, in particular... Nearly every customer... Astonishing what they
carry about with them..." The crumpled paper rose and billowed on the
counter more and more and more, until he was nearly hidden from us, until
he was altogether hidden, and still his voice went on and on. "We none of
us know what the fair semblance of a human being may conceal, Sir. Are we
all then no better than brushed exteriors, whited sepulchres-----"
His voice stopped--exactly like when you hit a neighbour's gramophone with
a well-aimed brick, the same instant silence--and the rustle of the paper
stopped, and everything was still.
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