Then she spoke, with a carelessness he instantly suspected. 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. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be. There you are, the best client’s chair. There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action.
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