Over the even weaker chin was disposed a blond goatee. The
cheeks were fatty. The continually perspiring forehead exhibited
innumerable pinkish pock-marks. In conversing with a companion this being
emitted a disgusting smoothness, his very gestures were oily like his
skin. He wore a pair of bloated wristless hands, the knuckles lost in
fat, with which he smoothed the air from time to time. He was speaking
low and effortless French, completely absorbed in the developing ideas
which issued fluently from his mustachios. About him there clung an aura
of cringing. His hair whiskers and neck looked as if they were trick neck
whiskers and hair, as if they might at any moment suddenly disintegrate,
as if the smoothness of his eloquence alone kept them in place.
We called him Judas.
Beside him, clumsily keeping the pace but not the step, was a tallish
effeminate person whose immaculate funereal suit hung loosely upon an
aged and hurrying anatomy. He wore a big black cap on top of his haggard
and remarkably clean-shaven face, the most prominent feature of which was
a red nose, which sniffed a little now and then as if its owner was
suffering from a severe cold. This person emanated age, neatness and
despair.
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