Even the love of a mother does not sway him. She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully. 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. Even in her hatred, she began to realize that Sebastian’s intelligence was much greater than Gianfrancesco’s. The room was dark and dusty.
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