Strike the gag, Blueskin. "Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity," replied Terence. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. 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. “You should probably wash all of that stuff off of yourself. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination.
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