His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. He glanced at it, and saw the bloodied blade. ” “If you want anything,” he said, “or get into any trouble, wire me. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be.
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