He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. 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. That’s about the beginning. “I expect it is pretty well in shreds by now. I’ll try to stay as long as I can. ‘No one would credit that you are three years older than I. Go off and live together—until we can marry.
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