“On or about the day you receive this letter, Anna, the six months will be up. Soot was everywhere, for the lamp would not stay trimmed in the gale. 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. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid.
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