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. He died in the war. “The very question, my dear sister,” she said, “tells me that I have succeeded. ” Hill looked up at him, an unkempt, rough-looking object, with broken collar, tumbled hair, and the blood slowly dripping from his face. On the present occasion, he appeared to have bestowed more than ordinary attention on his toilette.
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