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. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Couldn’t make head nor tail of that note of yours. " "You are a party concerned. It took my breath away. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork.
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