Sponge a chance, who
could not possibly change his tight hunting things for his evening tights
in the short space of time that Jog could drop off his loose-flowing
garments, wash his hands, and run the comb through his lank, candle-like
hair.
Five o'clock struck, and Jog was just applying his hand to the fat
red-and-black worsted bell-pull, when Mrs. Jog announced what she had done.
'Put off the dinner (wheeze)! put off the dinner (puff)!' repeated he,
blowing furiously into his clean shirt-frill, which stuck up under his nose
like a hand-saw; 'put off the dinner (wheeze)! put off the dinner (puff), I
wish you wouldn't do such (wheeze) things without consulting (gasp) me.'
'Well, but, my dear, you couldn't possibly sit down without him,' observed
Mrs. Jog mildly.
'Possibly! (puff), possibly! (wheeze),' repeated Jog. 'There's no possibly
in the matter,' retorted he, blowing more furiously into the frill.
Mrs. Jog was silent.
'A man should conform to the (puff) hours of the (wheeze) house,' observed
Jog, after a pause.
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