" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. "I don't see how you do it, Hoddy. Captain Roding strode into the parlour. "I have killed her," cried Jack. 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. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves.
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