So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. He drew out the check and the editorial letter. She could see that she was now the exclusive object of the boy’s attention. And your great-niece. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. 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. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me.
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