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"Don't pull your face about!" he said to me gently, but sternly. The thought that those dull eyes could see me was unpleasant, and I did not want to believe that this was the case. Was it not more than probable that he had guessed I was making grimaces? I told you not to pull your face about, he said again, hardly moving his thick lips.
"Don't scratch your hands," his dry whisper came to me, as it were, stealthily. "You are serving in a first-class shop in the main street of the town, and you must not forget it. The door-boy ought to stand like a statue."
I did not know what a statue was, and I couldn't help scratching my hands, which were covered with red pimples and sores, for they had been simply devoured by vermin.