Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. It’s a world in which the law can be a stupid pig and the police-stations dirty dens. 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’ll do. “You’d have to think how to get in between his bones.
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