No great lover of state or state costume at any time, he was generally, towards the close of an evening, completely in dishabille, and in this condition he now presented himself to his subjects. "You will make me the happiest of mankind," cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses. “It is your sister and her husband,” he said. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back.
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