The Passing of the Great Queen

On the cheek of the stout man who reclined in the barber’s chair there still lingered a small patch of unreclaimed jungle. Lancelot Purvis removed this with his gleaming razor, and, stepping back, surveyed his handiwork with silent satisfaction; for he was a conscientious barber and took a pleasure in making a good job of it. He now produced a steaming towel from nowhere, dumped it on the stout man’s face, kneaded it awhile, whisked it off, applied witch-hazel, and finally dabbed the face once or twice with a second towel. “Face massage, sir?” “No!” “Hair a little long at the ends. Trim it, sir