She went to the table under the end window at which she had been accustomed to work, and found it swept and garnished with full bottles of re-agents. “Did he tell you, Annabel?” “Yes. 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. She flung aside every plan she had in life, every discretion. She was always breaking rules, whispering asides, intimating signals. Capes and her father stood up, and her father made a belated movement toward the curtain. He thought of his wealth for once from a different point of view. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home.
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