‘Sapristi,’ he shouted angrily. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. 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. “You will have to eat soon,” he said cryptically. “Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said.
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