To my amazement he stooped, picked her up, and placed her sitting upon a high pedestal of black marble in the angle of the hall. It was at least seven feet high, and so thin that she could hardly balance upon it. A more absurd object than she presented cocked up there with her face convulsed with anger, her feet dangling, and her body rigid for fear of an upset, I could not imagine.
"Let me down!" she wailed.
"Say `please.'"
"You brute, George! Let me down this instant!"
"Come into the study, Mr. Malone."
"Really, sir----!" said I, looking at the lady.
"Here's Mr. Malone pleading for you, Jessie.
Say `please,' and down you come."
"Oh, you brute! Please! please!"
"You must behave yourself, dear. Mr. Malone is a Pressman. He will have it all in his rag to-morrow, and sell an extra dozen among our neighbors. `Strange story of high life'--you felt fairly high on that pedestal, did you not? Then a sub-title, `Glimpse of a singular menage.' He's a foul feeder, is Mr. Malone, a carrion eater, like all of his kind--porcus ex grege diaboli-- a swine from the devil's herd. That's it, Malone--what?"
"You are really intolerable!" said I, hotly.
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