" "Where—where?" cried Thames. "Let me go," cried Winifred. A tinge of admiration rose in his breast. If he had got off, they might have hanged me, and welcome. 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. "Jack," exclaimed the widow, starting up and drawing back the curtain. Kneebone invariably takes part with me, when any trifling misunderstanding arises between us.
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