’ ‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was marked. 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. He put it carefully aside, resolved to defer the attempt till night. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else.
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