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. ‘You wish to die?’ ‘Not in the least. "My coat!" Ruth did not move but stared astonishedly at the patient. ‘I told you I could handle her.
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