But Polly knew better. In her mind's eye she saw those fingers, rendered
doubly nervous by the fearful cerebral excitement, grasping at first
mechanically, even thoughtlessly, a bit of twine with which to secure
the window; then the ruling habit strongest through all, the girl could
see it; the lean and ingenious fingers fidgeting, fidgeting with that
piece of string, tying knot after knot, more wonderful, more
complicated, than any she had yet witnessed.
"If I were you," she said, without daring to look into that corner
where he sat, "I would break myself of the habit of perpetually making
knots in a piece of string."
He did not reply, and at last Polly ventured to look up--the corner was
empty, and through the glass door beyond the desk, where he had just
deposited his few coppers, she saw the tails of his tweed coat, his
extraordinary hat, his meagre, shrivelled-up personality, fast
disappearing down the street.
Miss Polly Burton (of the _Evening Observer_) was married the other day
to Mr. Richard Frobisher (of the _London Mail_). She has never set eyes
on the man in the corner from that day to this.
FINIS
End of Project Gutenberg's The Old Man in the Corner, by Baroness Orczy
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD MAN IN THE CORNER ***
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