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. ‘Comment? What do you wish?’ ‘What the devil do you think you’re up to now, I’d like to know?’ Her eyes flashed. For fully five minutes he lay quite motionless. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing. "How old are you?" demanded Miss Prudence. Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her. “If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper.
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