Look in the small hide-bound book that he keeps in his boot. Thames, you needn't tidy yourself, as you've hurt your arm. I suppose my creed is, ‘I believe rather indistinctly in God the Father Almighty, substratum of the evolutionary process, and, in a vein of vague sentimentality that doesn’t give a datum for anything at all, in Jesus Christ, His Son. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. ’ ‘Don’t be too sure,’ said Miss Froxfield darkly, with a mischievous glance at her betrothed. You are—horrible.
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