His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. “I wish. She’s right upstairs. " "And why not, old saltwater?" inquired Ben, turning a quid in his mouth. ” He said happily. ” He contradicted himself by plunging into an exposition of motifs. "Dying, Sir Rowland.
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