“What do you mean, hanging round with my wife?” he answered fiercely. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. “Absolutely platonically,” she said. "His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. 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. Still, I am curious. Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy. ‘You said it.
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