by Edgar Allan Poe
Adapted to chat story format by captivated chat
A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently,—a tall, stout, and muscular-looking person, with a certain dare-devil expression of countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. The man kept his face, greatly sunburnt, more than half hidden beneath whisker and mustachio. He carried a huge oaken cudgel under one arm. At once he bowed awkwardly, and bade us “good evening,” in French accents, which, although somewhat Neufchatelish, were still sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin.
(*) Rousseau—Nouvelle Heloise. This quotation means that he [the Prefect] ‘denies what is, and explains what is not.’