” “Miss Ellicot! That old cat!” Sydney exclaimed indignantly. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. 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. I presume that I may not kiss you in the street?” “Certainly not, sir,” she replied, laughing.
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