Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. On the same peg and evidently belonging to it was a black velvet Zouave jacket.
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