“Of course it is okay!” Cathy’s voice rose in volume and in pitch. She was radiant. Wood. 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 believe that I have heard my sister speak of you. I believe that his recovery was considered almost miraculous. The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. I know London better than you, and I have had to earn my own living.
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