“We have a private room at St. Giles's round-house on my own responsibility. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. She went to the post-office and drew out and sent off her money to Ramage. I keep on thinking of you. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Returning to the churchyard, he walked round it; and on the western side, near a small yew-tree discovered a new-made grave. To her great surprise and mortification he was not alone; but brought with him a couple of friends, whom he begged to introduce as Mr. ’ Hilary stared at him.
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