Mrs. "'I have succeeded in capturing Jack Sheppard. 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 carte de jour was before Monsieur. It is no more a murder, but a duel, you understand. The command was sullenly obeyed, for the fellow did not appear to relish the rating. It'll be advertised to-morrow. "Long life to the Markis, and we accept his honourable proposal," responded the mob.
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