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’ ‘Don’t start arguing again, for God’s sake,’ snapped Roding irritably, dragging out his own large pocket-handkerchief. 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. "I guessed from your dress and manner, Sir, that you must have been long absent from your own country," said Kneebone; "and now I'm convinced of it, or you wouldn't have asked that question. . . I expect company. "Go to lunch," he ordered Ruth. She looked at him curiously. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 26-09-2024 13:00:22