I have brought disgrace upon you, and I haven’t been the right sort of wife at all. ” Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. She resumed her on guard position, and glaring steadily at him, waited again. 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.
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