“It isn’t objections exactly. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. Saren Chen was a tall woman, thin and beautiful in a masculine way, Germanic. 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.
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