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. Ennison’s signet-ring had cut nearly to the bone. “We can be alone?” She inquired. I promise not to do it again.
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