Her teeth were chattering so hard that she had to clench them for fear of biting off her own tongue. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. A day will come when you will thank me. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living.
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