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He was detained. His car, a black Alfa Romeo, waited at the end of the subdivision. She had looked forward to an explanation. She still had her letter of credit. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. 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. ‘Just around it, Hilary, that’s all.
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