She took the tray with both hands, gulped, and gave way to tears. What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. Her body went into spasm. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. 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. "What's that?—Jack's voice!" "It is," replied her son.
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