"You are not. She fled. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. 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. ‘Ah, Madame Joan. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly. "His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily.
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