Down on your marrow-bones, sirrah! Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save you from the gallows. Enjoy. Jack was caught, as in a trap, by the pendant tails of Abraham's long frock; and, instead of obtaining his release by his ingenuity, he only got a sound thrashing. 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. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images.
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