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 doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever. I have been the vicomte’s secretary, remember. A little kindness would not bring the world tumbling about her ears. She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon. ‘Don’t concern yourself. Spurlock looked up.
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