271 His parents suggested that he go into therapy. “You do not quite understand,” she said gently. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. 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. ‘How did you guess?’ ‘I guessed as soon as you said this was your house.
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