Stopping before each door, they took up the plates of the locks, examined the ponderous bolts, and were struck with the utmost astonishment at what they beheld. 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. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber.
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