We already had a place to mislay blame. He returned to the car, Cokes in hand. "No, lad," said McClintock, his tone becoming kindly. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey. 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.
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