. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “You will have to eat soon,” he said cryptically. Here was one that subtly mocked her. On the way home he was still thoughtful. 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. That was the inconvenience of it; her head was swimming. The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves. I should like Mr. .
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