It was John Diedermayer, who had been transformed into a young scholar with a large pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses on. ‘And that Suzanne, the sister of my cousin the vicomte, must choose between Monsieur Charvill and her brother. You foolish girl!” Ann Veronica took that in silence. 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. There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him.
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