She kicked him in the shin, trying to knock him off his feet. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. “Election be hanged!” he exclaimed. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. But before the Grieg concerto was done, she knew that she was free. "Hurrah!" shouted he, waving his hat triumphantly over his head. She put her clothes back on, 118 lipstick smeared all over her face.
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