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 went across to the little window again, her back to Melusine. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. " "Iss, Massa Ireton," replied the black. It was a shame that they had made such a fuss, she thought as he arrived.
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