Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. ‘I do not believe you. 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. Could she understand what she was talking about? Luckily it was a second-class carriage and the ordinary fellowtravellers were not there.
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