The door was
locked. Something like a curse, something like a prayer, rose to his
lips, and his arms fell helplessly to his side.
Mrs. Hallam, realizing that it was Saturday night--the predatory night
of the week--had secured her pastry, her confitures, her celebrated
desserts; and so poor Pinton, all his sweet teeth furiously aching, his
mouth watering, stood on the hither side of Paradise, a baffled peri in
pantaloons!
After a pause, full of pain and troublous previsions of a restless,
discontented night, Pinton grew angry and pulled at the knob of the
door, thinking, perhaps, that it might abate a jot of its dignified
resistance. It remained immovable, grimly antagonistic, until his
fingers grew hot and cold as they touched a bit of cold metal.
The key in the lock! In a second it was turned, and the hungry one was
within and restlessly searching and fumbling for food. He felt along the
lower shelves and met apples, oranges, and sealed bottles containing
ruined, otherwise miscalled preserved, fruit. He knelt on the dresser
and explored the upper shelf.
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