He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. For a time Ann Veronica’s attention was diverted by her aunt’s interest in the salted almonds. "I knew him at once. All this was the work of a minute. What has been the matter?” “Toothache,” he answered laconically. It’s not you—not a bit. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know.
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