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THE BODY-SNATCHER
EVERY night in the year, four of us sat in the small parlour
of the George at Debenham - the undertaker, and the landlord,
and Fettes, and myself. Sometimes there would be more; but
blow high, blow low, come rain or snow or frost, we four
would be each planted in his own particular arm-chair.
Fettes was an old drunken Scotchman, a man of education
obviously, and a man of some property, since he lived in
idleness. He had come to Debenham years ago, while still
young, and by a mere continuance of living had grown to be an
adopted townsman. His blue camlet cloak was a local
antiquity, like the church-spire. His place in the parlour
at the George, his absence from church, his old, crapulous,
disreputable vices, were all things of course in Debenham.
He had some vague Radical opinions and some fleeting
infidelities, which he would now and again set forth and
emphasise with tottering slaps upon the table. He drank rum
-
five glasses regularly every evening; and for the greater
portion of his nightly visit to the George sat, with his
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