That was the glorious if bewildering truth. “They are full of the usual foolish stories. He’s riding down the drive. The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. Good night! God bless you!" Upon this, there was a great shaking of hands, with renewed apologies and protestations of friendship on both sides; after which Mr. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. ” She peered at him through the semi-blackness. 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.
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