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. I won't give him a chance. But you must tell her. And how much I owe you, too, dearest Winifred, for your kindness and attention. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. Then she moved towards the door.
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