On every corner the world around they took their stand last week as usual, just after nightfall. Tambourine shook, cornet squealed, trombone grunted. The thin bleat of pinched spinster voices, shrilling from time to time in accents of wailing fervor, took up the immemorial hymns. "Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb . . .?"
In all its gutters from Frisco to Bombay, Melbourne to Cape Town, the Salvation Army was on the job, inviting harassed and stricken souls to the peace which passeth understanding,...
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