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. I do forgive him; but he will never know now. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. I did not have to dig deep in my imagination to create the status-obsessed suburban environment of Lucy’s modern milieu.
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