And when I look at
that red cross your suspenders make on your white shirt--well, it
looks to me like some kind of emblem, like a trade-mark on a
packing-box--
MR. Y. I feel as if I'd choke--if the storm doesn't break soon--
MR. X. It's coming--don't you worry!--And your neck! It looks as
if there ought to be another kind of face on top of it, a face
quite different in type from yours. And your ears come so close
together behind that sometimes I wonder what race you belong to.
[A flash of lightning lights up the room] Why, it looked as if
that might have struck the sheriff's house!
MR. Y. [Alarmed] The sheriff's!
MR. X. Oh, it just looked that way. But I don't think we'll get
much of this storm. Sit down now and let us have a talk, as you
are going away to-morrow. One thing I find strange is that you,
with whom I have become so intimate in this short time--that yon
are one of those whose image I cannot call up when I am away from
them. When you are not here, and I happen to think of you, I
always get the vision of another acquaintance--one who does not
resemble you, but with whom you have certain traits in common.
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