He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table. He had now reached what was called the Lower Leads,—a flat, covering a part of the prison contiguous to the gateway, and surrounded on all sides by walls about fourteen feet high. 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. “Let’s go home. ’ ‘But where? Where has he gone? Always he goes off, and he says no word to anyone. I know all. .
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