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. After the first violent outbreak of grief had in some degree subsided, Thames addressed him. “I want you so much, Lucy. Hogarth," replied Gay. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. She flung aside every plan she had in life, every discretion. Eventually her movements carried her to the little stand at the side of the bed.
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