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. Hearing a noise below, Quilt called out, supposing it occasioned by the Jew. Eight per cent. Here, put it on your finger. “Anna,” he cried eagerly. “Tell your sister she was right to shoot, quite right. In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers.
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