Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. 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. " "Don't anger him, my dear son," implored the poor widow, with a look of anguish at Jack.
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