" "Do you call ten guineas easy terms?" cried Wood, with a look of dismay. "Come down stairs directly, and let your mother look at your wrist. He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. 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. He laughed lightly. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society.
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