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. "I have some difficulty in preventing myself from becoming your executioner. ‘No more, Saling, no more,’ said Mrs Sindlesham in accents of exhaustion. “Then we must try and make London endurable for you,” he remarked cheerfully. "If I had my old tools with me, we'd soon master this obstacle," he muttered. She was pensive and thoughtful. And mind you don't arouse his suspicions.
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