" And he strode out of the place. ‘Do not speak of him. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. All four people moved a little nervously into the drawing-room, maintaining a sort of fluttered amiability of sound and movement. Later, she would sew it on. " Her attitude now entirely sisterly, he ceased to be afraid of her; there was never anything in her eyes (so far as he could see) but friendly interest in all he said or did.
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