‘Oh, peste. It was owing to the untimely end of this poor fellow that Mrs. Meanwhile, the clergyman, bare-headed and in his surplice, advanced to meet them. We'll lather him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with aqua pompaginis. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. Ever smelled Eternity for Men? I think I smelled it on Josh once.
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