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Updated: May 25, 2025
Surely, sir, a minister of the Lamb of God, who was shed for the remission of sins, should be AGAINST burdens. I am sir, your obedient servant, I had not the least doubt as to the authorship of this precious epistle. Mr. Snale's hand was apparent in every word. He was fond of making religious verses, and once we were compelled to hear the Sunday- school children sing a hymn which he had composed.
Both were daubs, but curiously faithful in depicting what was most offensive in the character of both the originals, Mr. Snale's simper being preserved; together with the peculiarly hard, heavy sensuality of the eye in Mrs. Snale, who was large and full-faced, correct like Mr.
The husband of the lady who gave the entertainment for the month had to wait upon the company, and the minister was expected to read to them while they worked. It was my lot to be Mr. Snale's guest two or three times when Mrs. Snale was the Dorcas hostess. We met in the drawing-room, which was over the shop, and looked out into the town market-place.
The dead were coming up out of their graves; some were half out of the earth, others three-parts out the whole of the bottom part of the picture being filled with bodies emerging from the ground, a few looking happy, but most of them very wretched; all of them being naked. The first time I went to Mrs. Snale's Dorcas gathering Mr.
I remember Mrs. Snale's children coming in one afternoon when I was there. They were rough and ill-mannered, and left traces of dirty footmarks all over the carpet, which the two ladies noticed at once. But it made no difference to the treatment of the children, who had some cake and currant wine given to them, and were sent away rejoicing.
I expressed my gratitude to him for his kind opinion, and as we loitered he said: "Sorry to see that attack upon you in the Sentinel. I suppose you are aware it was Snale's. Everybody could tell that who knows the man." "If it is Mr. Snale's, I am very sorry." "It is Snale's. He is a contemptible cur and yet it is not his fault.
At the word "daughter" Mr. Snale grinned again, apparently to somebody behind me, and I found that one of his shopwomen had entered the counting-house, unobserved by me, while this conversation was going on, and that she was smirking in reply to Mr. Snale's signals. In a moment the blood rushed to my brain. I was as little able to control myself as if I had been shot suddenly down a precipice.
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