Along the floor ran an iron bar to which Jack's chain was attached, so that he could move along it from one end of the chamber to the other. You have all the instinctive dexterity of parasites. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer. 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. It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom.
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