He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. 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. She sat with him in the courtyard after serving him 20 spiced wine. I might utter a million, and still I doubt if I could make you understand. I don’t want to bother you, of course.
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