Every night, every night!" He paused, and passed his hands in a bewildered way across his forehead.

Then, like a man suddenly waking from sleep, he stared as though he saw me now for the first time, and broke into a low chuckling laugh.
"What a thing, what a thing it is, the memory!" he muttered.
"Strange--strange! See, I remembered all that, and forgot you! But I know what you want--a suit of clothes--yes, you need them badly, and I also need the money for them.

Ha, ha! And you will not have the fine coat of Milord Inglese! No, no! I understand.

I will find you something--patience, patience!" And he began to grope among a number of things that were thrown in a confused heap at the back of the shop.

While in this attitude he looked so gaunt and grim that he reminded me of an aged vulture stooping over carrion, and yet there was something pitiable about him too.