Salvation. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. I don’t think of you as a kid. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. ’ ‘Get going, then,’ Trodger told his men. Stanley and his sister into a taxicab, and had waved an amiable farewell from the pavement steps. “Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph. He threw her on the bed.
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