She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. 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. Still he had a decent look, and decidedly the air of one well-to-do in the world. " "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling. Stanley almost liked Ramage. You're in a more serious scrape than you imagine.
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