“You will not even answer my letters. I don’t defend it. Usually his charges bored him with their interrogative chatter, for he knew that his information more often than not went into one ear and out of the other. It is in vain to struggle against the arm of fate. 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.
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