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. ” He stalked around the room. ” “Why not? Your spirits at least should be good. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Mr. Dollis Hill revisited.
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