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He choked, and even shed tears; but with an effort he mastered his voice and said in lugubrious tones: "Are you the duck that runs the gospel-mill next door?" "Am I the pardon me, I believe I do not understand?"
He choked, and even shed tears; but with an effort he mastered his voice and said in lugubrious tones: "Are you the duck that runs the gospel-mill next door?" "Am I the pardon me, I believe I do not understand?"
I once discovered in Massachusetts what I considered to be the world's meanest man. It was Rev. Spenser B. Meeser, engineer of a Worcester gospel-mill. He was a beggar's brat who had been clothed, fed and educated by old Stephen Girard's bounty, but when he grew to manhood or doghood he puked on the grave of his benefactor because the latter elected to be an Atheist instead of a bigoted Baptist.
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