‘I find you excessively rude, both of you,’ said the lady crossly. 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. But this was long ago. ‘You said—who?’ ‘Remenham. Collins, you can go now. He yelled but he had no breath to support his own voice.
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