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. Melusine ripped at the buttons of the garment, dragging it open and away, and gasped at the massive red stain on his shirt. Mrs. I know. Here the prisoners took exercise; and a quaint, but striking picture has been left of their appearance when so engaged, by the author of the English Rogue. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered.
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