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. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. I could not dream of loving you. \" She thought of her kill. He would pursue that little pastime on some other occasion. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently.
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