” Mr. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. His shirt also was unbuttoned, and disclosed a neck like that of an ox, and a chest which might have served as a model for a Hercules. This lifeless appearance was heightened by the extreme sharpness of her features—especially the nose and chin,—and by the emaciation of her limbs, which was painfully distinct through her drapery. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane. And she would have to go tomorrow. Clergymen were human.
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