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. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. Ruth's arm trembled and her step faltered, but he was too far away in thought to be observant. I'm glad he's come to see me. You understand me, Charcoal. .
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