From the shooting saloons came a
continual spatter of toy rifles. Linking up these sounds, were the voices
of the serried crowd that surged along the central avenue, and the
shuffle of their myriad feet. The night was lurid with acetylene torches,
which flamed with a dull unceasing roar. It was a curious sight, half
gay, half sordid. The throng seemed bent with a kind of savagery upon
amusement, as though, resentful of the weary round of daily labour, it
sought by a desperate effort to be merry.
The English party with Dr Porhoet, mildly ironic, had scarcely entered
before they were joined by Oliver Haddo. He was indifferent to the plain
fact that they did not want his company. He attracted attention, for his
appearance and his manner were remarkable, and Susie noticed that he was
pleased to see people point him out to one another. He wore a Spanish
cloak, the _capa_, and he flung the red and green velvet of its lining
gaudily over his shoulder. He had a large soft hat. His height was great,
though less noticeable on account of his obesity, and he towered over the
puny multitude.
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