Still, her face never betrayed this distraction. She was particularly charmed by his theory of friendship. Her cheeks flushed a dull red. 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. “He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. "Then take her back," said the manager.
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