If you knew anything about Canton ware, you were, as like as not, sorely tempted to stuff a teacup into your pocket. 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. Wood. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. ” That night was the most intolerable one that Ann Veronica had ever spent. A diversion was created by the violent struggles of the little old lady.
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