His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy. 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. “David Courtlaw!” she repeated. ‘Never fear, my love. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man.
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