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. Did he act to you that day as if he knew what he was doing?" "Not all of the time. Wood," said Jonathan, advancing towards him, and speaking in a low tone, "the secret of your adopted son's birth is known to me. It was the blouse that gave Lucy away. No, not one little bit. '—'Oh! yes we are,' says he.
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