“What do you mean, Annabel? You only knew Mr. Sepulchre's clock struck eight. 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. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. There's something queer about that young man; but we'll never be able to find out what it is.
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