"That's well. ” Sir John stamped his letters, brushed his hat, and carefully gave his moustache an upward curl before the looking-glass. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. 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. It really isn’t so easy to go as it seems. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred.
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