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 love you, Anna, and I want you for my wife. “Not a bit of it. ‘You will keep yourself utterly quiet,’ he instructed, a growl in her ear as they headed for the door. Her tone was icy.
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