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. It was open. It hardly served his interests. It's kind of comforting to have you there. He suggested they take the remains of the household to his country estate, where he could at least hunt through the winter to provide them venison and grouse. He is the kind of man who would much prefer a little dust in his eyes. Gay," he added, turning to the poet. He hadn't played fair. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him.
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