‘Stay, Saling!’ The butler halted, looking round enquiringly. 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. Predictably, Charvill turned on him. “In it lies the secret poison he used to turn you into an Oracle. And with his daughter?’ ‘He wrote to Jarvis from an inn in France, saying that he had married Mademoiselle Valade, and that his baby naturally belonged with her father.
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