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This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man. 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. Chapter XVI THE DISCOMFITURE OF SIR JOHN Sir John looked from one to the other of the two sisters. I wish they would just get it over with. "You open it, Ruth. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. After all, why need one look down. She had never had a real doll. A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. But it is the truth. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. I do not ask if you are entirely English, but if you say truly when you say you are at my service. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. . He looked no longer at his wife.

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