"These writer chaps are queer birds. 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. They took their places at a distant table. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest. There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless cruelty to give her a push toward it. She expanded that. "No, please! It is good luck for a dog to enter your house.
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