All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon. "What's that to you?" demanded Jonathan, gruffly. She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. She kept opening her eyes and looking at it.
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