Her eyes were swollen. In
her hand she carried a travesty of a wreath, done in whitish
metal, which she had interwoven with her own black mantilla, the
best substitute for crape at hand. This she undertook to hang on
the door. As Carroll crossed to address her, a powerful, sullen-
faced man, with a scarred forehead and the insignia of some
official status, apparently civic, on his coat, emerged from a
doorway and addressed her harshly. She raised her reddened eyes to
him and seemed to be pleading for permission to set up the little
tribute to her dead. There was the exchange of a few more words.
Then, with an angry exclamation, the official snatched the wreath
from her. Carroll's hand fell on his shoulder. The man swung and
saw a stranger of barely half his bulk, who addressed him in what
seemed to be politely remonstrant tones. He shook himself loose
and threw the wreath in the crone's face. Then he went down like a
log under the impact of a swinging blow behind the ear. With a
roar he leaped up and rushed. The foreigner met him with right and
left, and this time he lay still.
Hanging the tragically unsightly wreath on the door, through which
the terrified mourner had vanished, Carroll returned to the Gran
Hotel Kast, his perturbed and confused thoughts and emotions
notably relieved by that one comforting moment of action.
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