His eyes closed. 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 leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. Be this as it may, though a Catholic, he died a friend to the Protestant succession. "He shan't trouble you further.
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