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 wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. ’ ‘Militia, miss,’ Kimble corrected her. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. He was an old, skilled vampire.
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