That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. 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. She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis. He hesitated for a moment and then he followed her. As he was about to descend his chains slightly rattled. Just what in the world was that about? Before he could hazard a guess, Lucy looked back at him. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. Send you the shirt. we’ll stop by the Amoco on Maple.
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