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In the ponderous mouldy register of the little market-town of Saxmundham, in the county of Suffolk covered with the red remnants of the old worn-out velvet pulpit-cushion of the said village church, into which the Christian religion had been beaten and enforced, both with clenched fist and pointed elbow, and which now plainly told the congregation that it had at last yielded only to Parson Brown's impressive manner and arguments in this prodigious volume, protected by huge brass clasps, which naught but the rough hand of the man of skulls could force to obedience, after the oft-wetted thumb had aroused some hundreds of gigantic leaves from their peaceful slumber, and the book had opened wide its time-worn pages, there was, and, I doubt not, is still to be discovered, a plainly-written record, setting forth, in most intelligible terms, that I, John Shipp, the humble author of these Memoirs, came into this wicked and untoward generation on the 16th day of March, A.D. 1785.

"All square," the second clerk said, in a half-whispered aside. "It's him right enough." And the cashier proceeded to count out the notes with oft-wetted fingers. Guy took them up mechanically, like a drunken man, counted them over one by one in a strange, dazed way; and staggered out at last to the cab to Nevitt. Nevitt leaned forward and took the bundle from his hands.