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. She felt smaller and more adventurous even than she had expected to feel. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. They got to go home and eat Campbell’s Chicken Soup. Take it, if I die. He’ll do.
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