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. "The poor things!" The manager laughed. Seems as she don’t trust soldiers easy. The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly.
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