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. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned. Very good. Abruptly he gripped her wrist. She was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular. I'm a slave to my word. Sometimes she missed her cue and nodded affirmatively when the gesture should have been the reverse; and Prudence would send her a sharp glance of disapproval.
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