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The latter formed by far the most knavish-looking and unprepossessing portion of the assemblage. . . ’ ‘Who was to know if you would find your place?’ countered Martha. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. 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. It was clear that he meant to kiss her before she exited the car.
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