About the same moment the clock in the office downstairs
struck nine. Vandover let his feet drop to the floor and sat on the edge
of the bed, looking vaguely about him. His face, ordinarily very pale,
was oily from sleep and red upon one side from long contact with the
pillow, the marks of the creases still showing upon his cheek. His long
straight hair fell about his eyes and ears like a tangled mane. A thin
straggling beard and moustache, of a brown much lighter than his hair,
covered the lower part of his face. His nose was long and pinched, while
brown and puffed pockets hung beneath his eyes.
He wore a white shirt very crumpled and dirty, a low standing collar and
a black four-in-hand necktie, very greasy. His trousers were striped and
of a slate blue colour--the "blue pants" of the ready-made clothing
stores. Still sitting on the bed, Vandover continued his stupid gaze
about the room.
The room was small, and at some long-forgotten, almost prehistoric
period had been covered with a yellowish paper, stamped with a huge
pattern of flowers that looked like the flora of a carboniferous
strata, a pattern repeated to infinity wherever the eye turned.
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