"There'll be a louder echo here presently," thought Jonathan. He was a fool. 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. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet.
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