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. I did not know what God had in mind then. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. “No doubt about that,” Meddoes continued. ” “YOU know,” said Ann Veronica. " "You did right," returned Trenchard.
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