Sheppard broke from him, and filled the room with her shrieks. 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. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. No doubt he knew enough of his world to recognise that he stood little chance against the word of a major of militia. Only sat, staring at him, a puzzled look in her face.
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