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She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. 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. Once, when he thought he had done so, he smiled an ingratiating smile. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful.
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