"You hear that," cried Mrs. 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. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. Send you the shirt. He wants you—or he doesn’t; and then he helps some other woman against you.
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