” “I think,” Lady Lescelles said, putting down her teacup, “that I must send Nigel to plead his own cause. 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. He laughed at her heartily, and she laughed too as she had not for a year. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. “To the best of my belief, I have never seen the man in my life. A radiant smile astonished him.
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