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He was in trouble and she could not help him; that was the ache in her heart. John turned toward the short staircase as she alit upon the first creaky step. A pity you did not think to tell me that part of the tale at the outset. You desire to know who he was, Sir Rowland. 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. “Then turn round and go back there,” she directed. . Unless it was a jewel or locket of some kind. But a man is a mixed creature.
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