This charming episode was repeated three times. 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. A note of belligerency had crept into his tone. "What have you got there in your breast—a stone? Is there blood or water in your veins?" The dam broke, but not with violence. “How CAN I tell him?” whispered Miss Stanley. "In this pit," he added, pointing to the chasm below, "your brother is buried.
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