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. It is very sweet of you to have waited for me. CHAPTER XVIII. “Always planning for death. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. Sir Montacute had three children—two daughters and yourself. He was every bit as much a pig as this Emile. “Well, what is it?” “Montague Hill is recovering consciousness,” he said.
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