"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. 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. He did not move. ‘I told her you couldn’t have been flirting, but she wouldn’t believe me. ” He rejoiced over this emancipation. So, adroitly and patiently, he pulled Ruth apart; that is, he plucked forth a little secret here, another there, until he had quite a substantial array. It was just a chance that we in particular hit against each other—nothing predestined about it.
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