““Come in.” “Mr. Brown, ma’am,” said Grateley, and then stood aside to let him in. I am not sure quite what I had been expecting, but it was not this. My first impression was that everything about him was brown — dark brown. His skin was mahogany-colored. So were his clothes: a cotton tie, a tweed jacket with the top button fastened and what appeared to be a cardigan beneath. He was like a kipper in human form. It seemed absurd that his name should be Brown too. The only things about him that we...re not brown were his eyes. Gray, like two polished tacks, they gleamed with alertness. His hair stood up in tufts. He was holding an object in his left hand — brown, inevitably — mashed between his fingers. The other was jutting out in front of him. “Mrs. Pretty,” he said. “It was good of you to come, Mr. Brown.” “No, no, no …” His handshake was dry and firm. “Won’t you sit down?” I indicated the sofa. He did so, but only just, perching on the edge of the seat with his elbows on his knees.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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