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 former was shot by Blueskin through the head, and his body fell over the bannisters. She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run.
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