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Updated: July 19, 2025
His curls, escaping from the nightcap covering his head, float on his forehead. His long, loose night-shirt, catching his little feet, increases his impatience, and causes him to stumble at every step. At length he crosses the room, and, holding out his two hands to mine: "Baby wishes you a Happy New Year," he says, in an earnest voice. "Poor little love, with his bare feet!
Are his night-shirt and night-cap you understand here?" "All ready," said the Count. "Now, Madame," said the doctor, turning to the lady, and making her, in spite of the emergency, a bow, "it is time you should retire." The lady passed into the room in which I had taken my cup of treacherous coffee, and I saw her no more.
A philosopher might be tempted, on seeing the little night-shirt, to suppose that the big night-shirts had made it. What we do is much the same, for the body of a baby is not much more made by the two old babies, after whose pattern it has cut itself out, than the little night-shirt is made by the big ones.
Boys in their dormitories sit up in bed and listened to the roar of the wind as it howled round the house. And that silent party in the Doctor's study never once thought of seeking rest. Midnight came; but no Oliver, no Loman and the storm as furious as ever. Presently there came a soft knock at the door, which made every one start suddenly as the door opened. It was Stephen in his night-shirt.
Vaxin turned so as to face the door-post, but at that instant it seemed as though somebody tweaked his night-shirt from behind and touched him on the shoulder. "Damnation! . . . Rosalia Karlovna!" No answer. Vaxin hesitatingly opened the door and peeped into the room. The virtuous German was sweetly slumbering. The tiny flame of a night-light threw her solid buxom person into relief.
The doctor drew my night-shirt over my head, and in a moment I was locked in the close embrace of that superb creature. We were both too hot to wait for further preliminaries, but went at it in furious haste, and rapidly paid our first tribute to the god of love. The doctor had acted postillion to both of us, with a finger up each anus.
The governor had only just got out of bed, and was comfortably seated before his dressing-table in his night-shirt and silk dressing-gown, bathing his face and neck with eau-de-cologne after having removed a whole collection of charms and coins dangling from it, when he was informed of the arrival of Sipiagin and Kollomietzev upon some urgent business.
He took his night-shirt from the pillow and put it on without removing his pipe from his mouth. He always finished his pipe in bed. "It is revenge," he said, pulling the bed-clothes up to his chin, "because I got you away from him." "I don't think it is that; I did think so at first, and I said so." "What did he say?"
One night it was late in the afternoon of the same year, about six months after the tragedy of the florin Samuel Povey was wakened up by a hand on his shoulder and a voice that whispered: "Father!" The thief and the liar was standing in his night-shirt by the bed. Samuel's sleepy eyes could just descry him in the thick gloom. "What what?" questioned the father, gradually coming to consciousness.
She could see his night-shirt shake with the beating of his heart. "Have you hurt your hand?" "No." "Can I do anything?" "No. Go back to bed. She's all right now." She went back. Presently she heard him leave his room and go upstairs again. The bolt of the front door squeaked; then the hinge of the gate. Somebody going out. She fell asleep. The sound of hoofs and wheels woke her.
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