Of course, I can't promise you the job definitely. So long as she stood beside him, he was safe. 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. Lucy followed. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears.
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