He was plainly attired in a riding-dress and boots of the period, and wore a hanger by his side. I hate what I am. "My child!" he groaned faintly. He continued tenderly, almost affectionately. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. "He is," replied a portly personage, arrayed in a gorgeous yellow brocade dressing-gown, lined with cherry-coloured satin, and having a crimson velvet cap, surmounted by a gold tassel, on his head. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity.
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