“You will have to eat soon,” he said cryptically. When he returned, it was always the same. It may be well, therefore, before proceeding farther, to describe it more minutely. 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. His lips parted in a rare smile.
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