The carte de jour was before Monsieur. 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, much better. After a while, he raised his eyes; and, if their glance could have been witnessed at the moment, it could not have been easily forgotten. " Nothing on land or water was spared by the remorseless gale. “What do you mean, hanging round with my wife?” he answered fiercely.
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