“The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. “If I sit here,” he said, standing up before her abruptly, “I shall have to shout. 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. “You must tell me the truth, please. I—listen.
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