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. Probably she mistook you; probably she thought you cared. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’ Gerald flushed. All about her, hither and yon, lay the enticing Unknown.
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