His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. My Mom and Dad were on the brink of divorce, what else is new, they still are. He had no wish to drag the footman out of his way, once he had got his questions answered. 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. ‘You have rifled his papers.
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