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“Gods!” cried Ann Veronica, and kept him standing. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other. She would never again be lonely. “I hope that Mr. 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. She was very satisfied about this. .
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