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. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone.
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