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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. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly. It may be useful to you. . CHAPTER XIX.
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