Spurlock began to munch his water-chestnuts. 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. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. I wish some one would kill Ramage by accident!. Winifred, you are deceived in me. Take care he don't see you,—and bring me word where he goes, and what he does. ” “It isn’t necessary,” they both declared breathlessly.
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