Langley is getting up, and coming this way. CHAPTER XXI. 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’ve never seen her quite so sure of herself. " "Here!" ejaculated Wood, with a look of alarm.
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