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. I shall give you my life, every moment and thought of my life. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. No other white people within twenty miles. ‘Do not mix yourself in mine, and perhaps you will not die. “What a little brick!” he murmured.
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