It was true in every aspect of the man. The very clothes he
wore, somber, wool-threaded homespun, crudely patched, reminded
one of the coarse fabrics that monks affect for their abasement.
But one saw, when one remembered the characteristic of the man,
that they represented here only an extremity of avarice.
Zindorf looked coldly at his guest.
"Mr. Lucian Morrow," he said, "you will go on, and my price will
go on!"
But the young blood, on his feet, was not brought up by the
monetary threat. He looked about the room, at the ceiling, the
thick walls. And, like a man who by a sudden recollection
confounds his adversary with an overlooked illustrative fact, he
suddenly cried out:
"By the soul of Satan, you're housed to suit! Send me to the
pit! It's the very place for you! Eh! Zindorf, do you know who
built the house you live in?"
"I do not, Mr. Lucian Morrow," said the man. "Who built it?"
One could see that he wished to divert the discourses of his
guest. He failed.
"God built it!" cried Morrow.
He put out his hands as though to include the hose.
"Pendleton," he said, "you will remember.
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