There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. ’ ‘That’s fortunate,’ murmured Lucilla. 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. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow.
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