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. "It's very well you haven't crushed the poor little thing to death with this confounded clothes'-bag. "Off!" she cried with a prolonged and piercing shriek. She moaned as he buried himself completely to the hilt. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park.
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