The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. 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. The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him. It is not at all comme il faut. Then, naturally, I went on talking.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ0LjExNC4xMDEgLSAzMC0wNi0yMDI0IDAxOjQ4OjQ0IC0gMjA3NTY4ODQ5MA==
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