"Now stand before me, Poll. The calvacade was now put slowly in motion. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. She found it rather funny that he always wore the shirt fastidiously tucked in and never wore the ensemble without a stiff brown leather belt. It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him.
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