There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. 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. And where was that devil? Had the soldiers found him? She could not think he had escaped, for she had only just made it into the passage as they entered the library. She was caught by some of the bystanders, who offered by her every assistance in their power. It is positively hateful to think of it. ‘Gérard will think that I have gone back to London. Some of your sex, I mean.
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