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 undid his coat, and I took it from his pocket. The whole of that relationship persisted in remaining obscure. Shotbolt that if he, or any other person, takes Jack Sheppard before to-morrow morning, I'll double it.
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