It was cramped even at the end of the passage. 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. McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward. “I know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life.
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