‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. . 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 a bad omen to be thrown near that door. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. "But, let that pass.
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