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. Miss Miniver looked over her glasses at her friend almost balefully. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription. This obstacle removed, he thought he might now make the attempt. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. “But I am at singing-pitch. There was no longer any risk in association with her. If I can’t talk anywhere else—I DO want an understanding.
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