Cheveney was another Paris friend, was he?” she asked. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. 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. ‘Oh, are there? You are not quite alone in these adventures of yours, I take it. Heaven alone knows why. I didn’t realize—I don’t see how I can get out of it now.
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