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. He continued tenderly, almost affectionately. Suddenly she became aware of the fact that he had brought no lunch. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. Charvill’s fury was burning out.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIyNy4xMy4xMTIgLSAyOS0wNi0yMDI0IDA1OjIyOjE5IC0gMTg4NTgwODg2NA==
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