Oh, you cannot escape from it. He pulled on her shoulder, bringing her mouth to his in a kiss. 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. “Who from?” She met his eye for a second and her heart failed her. "You frighten the cull out of his senses. He probably imagines himself to be a thousand times worse off than he actually is. It’s an instinct.
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