“Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child. Sebastian physically restrained her as she hit and scratched at him, trying to touch her mother who went swiftly into her death throes. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. 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 sorry," she said. But we can’t help noticing. For an instant, Gerald wished the rest of the world away that he might go to her and administer appropriate comfort. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin.
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