He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter. "Will he consent, to be searched?" inquired Jonathan. . The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. As soon as he was gone, Jonathan went up stairs to the audience-chamber; and, sitting down, appeared for some time buried in reflection. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly.
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