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. She thought of her costume in some detail and with considerable satisfaction, and particularly of a very jolly property dagger with large glass jewels in the handle, that reposed in a drawer in her room. If there were any pearls, none came into the light. "Nothing—nothing," she answered, bursting into tears. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. Now you will learn the result.
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