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. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. \" Obediently, Lucia rose from her seated position on the bed and approached the baby and the mother in wonderment. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion. What you would look upon as immorality is here merely an established custom, three thousand years older than Christianity, accepted with no more ado than that which would accompany you should you become a clerk in a shop. Every time you mention the father, she turns into marble.
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