His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. They walked two by two to the car, looking the part of 267 two weary spouses supporting their drunken mates after an all-night bender. The Widgett method of thought puzzled her weakly rhetorical mind. Forgive me.
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