17 up-train. "I do," replied Sheppard. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. 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. The boy she had loved was gone. “I don’t see why not,” he answered. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. “Yes. ” She smiled grimly at the recollection of that lunch—tea and roll at a cheap café.
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