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. ‘Where is Gérard?’ ‘Out of town,’ Hilary said briefly. His blood would be sweet with it. ‘She would not tell me. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. Neither of them believed me. He spoke only when he saw the sing-song girl he wanted to buy. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy.
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