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a web of many textures

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There was a lecture preached in the little brick
school-house, when Mrs. Partington lived in Beanville,
upon the natural and practical application of the Gospel.
The old lady, who all her life long had attended at the
Old North Church, looked upon the discourse with suspicion,
and watched the preacher with much jealousy, in
hopes of catching him tripping. At last he spoke of
the book of Job, commending its grandeur and great
beauty of thought, but saying that he regarded Job as
simply a drama. The old lady was near the door, and
as she heard this she immediately arose and left the
house, saying, with a warmth scarcely in keeping with
her character, — but religious prejudice, even in the
best, will induce a queer feeling, and we would throw
this pen into the fire rather than pretend that Mrs. Partington
was perfect, — “Well, well, I wonder what he 'll
say next? What a presentiment from a pulpit where the
Gospel has been so long dispensed with!” — “What 's the
matter, mem?” asked old Mr. Jones, who ran against the
dame as he was going in, reminding one of the concussion


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of the irresistible and immovable bodies, — “what 's
the matter? what 's broke?” — feeling round on the
ground for his specs, which had been knocked off by the
collision. — “Why,” said she, pulling down her cap-border,
which had been, like her temper, a little disturbed,
“why, he has just said that Job was n't nothing
but a drummer; and if that is n't blastphemy, I should
like to know what is.” — “Did you judge, from the tenor
of his remark, that Job was a bass drummer?” said
Jones, at the same moment. — “No,” replied she, “but
the remark was very base.” Mr. Jones laughed, and
the dame greatly wondered thereat, deeming that he was
yet, as she said to herself, “in the intents of wickedness.”