But after the first shock came a warm glow of relief. ‘All right, Trodger. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. He could have easily forced it, but preferred a more expeditious mode of reaching the roof which suggested itself to him. He must be more or less of an age with this man.
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