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. “My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. I shall have no faith in future in bolts and bars.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIyNi44Mi4xNjMgLSAxOS0wNS0yMDI0IDAyOjE1OjE5IC0gMTg3ODc2NjExMw==
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