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. You'll find me at supper. '—'No fear o' that,' thought I. He and his friends (he had at least two per class, even in Trigonometry) would make their exits as quickly as possible.
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