“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. He’ll survive. 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. ‘And all to help me. He might go on as the devoted lover until he tired. "Mr.
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