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And I was led to do so in thinking of Bob Hewett. Bob wore a collar. In the die-sinking establishment which employed him there were, it is true, two men who belonged to the collarless; but their business was down in the basement of the building, where they kept up a furnace, worked huge stamping-machines, and so on.
There is no mistaking it. We should know its dirty appearance and awry folding not to mention bad writing among ten thousand. Having been turned with its stamp in the right direction at the facing-tables and passed under the stamping-machines without notice, it comes at last to one of the sorters, and effectually, though briefly, stops him. His rapid distributive hand comes to a dead pause.