Every moment or two he bent over his patient. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. 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 latter haughtily returned his salutation, and flung himself, as if exhausted, into a chair. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. When they made love, he seemed to shift into the realm of possessiveness.
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