‘Ha! It’s you, is it?’ He threw a glance at his two juniors. 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. Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast. To this day he and every one else thinks that he married Anna. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey.
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