He was wearing a new silk hat, with a slightly more generous brim than its predecessor, and it suited his type of face, robbed his dark eyes a little of their aggressiveness and gave him a solid and dignified and benevolent air. What was the alternative to going home? No alternative appeared in that darkness. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky.
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