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. A severe pang shot through Jack's heart, and he would have given worlds if he possessed them to have seen his friend once more. ‘Comment? You have then met this Suzanne?’ The woman turned a deep red.
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