‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon the floor. 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 suppose you have come to see your granddaughter. Trust you.
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