‘I have told you I will take Jacques. 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. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. ’ ‘Well, I am glad he did not,’ intervened Lucilla, forestalling another withering comment from the captain. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. “Always has been,” said Ogilvy. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. To be with you is the best moral tonic I know.
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