`Comfortable，dear？’sheaskedinafaint，far—awayvoice。`ShallIputoutthelightnow？’
ThedrearyconvictionthattherewasnosleepforhimheldMrVerlocmuteandhopelesslyinertinhisfearofdarkness。Hemadeagreateffort。
`Yes。Putitout，’hesaidatlastinahollowtone。
CONRAD:TheSecretAgent，Chapter4CHAPTER4
Mostofthethirtyorsolittletablescoveredbyredclothswithawhitedesignstoodrangedatrightanglestothedeepbrownwainscotingoftheundergroundhall。Bronzechandelierswithmanyglobesdependedfromthelow，slightlyvaultedceiling，andthefrescopaintingsranflatanddullallroundthewallswithoutwindows，representingscenesofthechaseandofoutdoorrevelryinmedievalcostumes。Varletsingreenjerkinsbrandishedhuntingknivesandraisedonhightankardsoffoamingbeer。