“A man with the sad name of Muggleton wandered along the sunny seaside embankment with appropriate despondency. He frowned with concern, and the numerous groups and chains of street actors stretching along the beach would have waited in vain for any sign of approval from him. Pierrot was raised to him by pale, moon-shaped faces, like the bellies of dead fish, but this did not improve his mood. The fairground blacks, their faces gray with soot smeared, also tried unsuccessfully to evoke a flicker of merriment in him. Muggleton was a sad and disappointed man. The features of his face, with the exception of his bald, frowning forehead, were sunken and expressionless, so that the only striking decoration against the background of this dull face seemed especially out of place. It was a dashing military mustache of outstanding size, suspiciously similar to a fake one. Perhaps they were actually fake. However, they could have been grown on purpose, by force of will, since they were part of his profession, and not his personality...”