She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. 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. Ruth stared thoughtfully at the waiting coolies. Don’t say the wretch was also following Valade. Gentlemen! a glass of brandy will be no bad finish to our meal. I have no right to love you.
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