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. "Look here," cried Jonathan, stooping down and taking hold of a ring in the floor, with which by a great effort he raised up a flag. "You will spare the officers a labour then," rejoined Jonathan. In the bad light he looked at once military and sentimental and studious, like one of Ouida’s guardsmen revised by Mr. “Hill’s confession will finally refute a number of absurd stories which have been in circulation during the last few days. ’ ‘Yes, that is Mr Brewis Charvill, as you have found out for me. Each of my scholars thinks it his own shirt.
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