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. Ah, if I had written that!" "Don't you want to live?" "I don't know; I really don't know. It rained slightly, and a thick mist gathered in the air, and obscured the beautiful prospect. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it. The last time Pottiswick had called out the militia on suspicion of intruders in Remenham House, a large rodent had been all the spoil. That is what I’ve had on my conscience.
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