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. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. "I suppose he'll be on his feet any day now. There'll be a fall of above twelve foot o' water, and think o' that on a night as 'ud blow a whole fleet to the devil.
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