On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. He is already married. “I think they do. Miss Ellicot has spoken to you, the great Mr. Certainly not a gentlewoman.
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