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. It's fortunate we've no more Jack Sheppards, or I should stand but a poor chance. I’m not Gerald, remember. “I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside.
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