With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. I felt—wrapped in thick cobwebs. "The feeling is dead within my breast.
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