216 “Please, get dressed. "Your business, Sir?" returned the other, stiffly. You have actually given up a dinner-party to dine alone with me. 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 shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque.
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