"Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford. 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. Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy. Had she expected to wed Valade herself? Had the fellow broken a vow of betrothal, or abandoned her? He must find out more. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. ‘I rather suspect,’ added Prudence, ‘that Major Alderley’s motives were somewhat different.
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