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 was always visualizing the Hand whenever he let his gaze rest upon the horizon. The doctor missed the expression of terror and dismay that flitted across Spurlock's face. But they did what they could for her.
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