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. Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. “Let me get you some water, Annabel. But to-day he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs. Even that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest.
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