She swallowed it up disdainfully, as it was hardly worth the trouble opening one's mouth for.

La Faloise laughed idiotically and sucked the top of his stick.

His debts were crushing him; he was not worth a hundred francs a year, and he saw that he would be compelled to go back into the country and live with his maniacal uncle.

But that did not matter; he had achieved smartness; the Figaro had printed his name twice.

And with his meager neck sticking up between the turndown points of his collar and his figure squeezed into all too short a coat, he would swagger about, uttering his parrotlike exclamations and affecting a solemn listlessness suggestive of an emotionless marionette.