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. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. "Hell's curses!" roared Jonathan. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. "But, let me tell you, it's not a pleasant sight to see the girl one likes in the arms of another.
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