The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly. “Monsieur would dine! It was very good! And Madame, of course?” with a low bow. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. 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. "Disparity of rank is ever productive of unhappiness in the married state. “This isn’t furtive,” said Ann Veronica. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight.
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