But the indecision, which had been fatal to his race, was fatal to him. ‘What do you mean?’ Gerald grinned. 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. “Wonderful man!” said Ann Veronica, reassured, and stroking his cheek with her finger.
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