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. "I cannot sign it," returned Trenchard. ‘So yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’ ‘I should say so. You don’t want to look like Bozo.
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