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"I didn't mean to give offence," replied Sheppard, sulkily. ” She wondered what to. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. 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. Another picture slid across her vision. “How do you know?” “Well, it isn’t exactly a depressing state, is it?” “YOU don’t know.
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