" "Heaven help her!" sighed Jack. Plote was sleeping or deaf. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Lucy asked. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. 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. ‘That’s my pet name.
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