Softly she rose to her feet. 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 think that I will leave this letter for him,” she said. "Raise your vice, and lave off coughin'," added Terence. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. He saw that his words were falling upon dull ears.
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