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. " "Go on, tell me," he urged, enchanted. "Look quick, Blueskin, and be cursed to you!" was growled in the deep tones of Jonathan Wild. Doesn’t matter a bit to me. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do.
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