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. ‘Desist, you little devil,’ he growled in her ear. Certainly I cannot kill you if you tell me to do so. Things that you and the nuns would not think about for—’ She stopped, biting back the words “for a young girl”. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. Smith, "upon my conscience. ” She glared at him balefully.
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