"How old are you?" demanded Miss Prudence. 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. "Now Sir," he added, glancing suspiciously at the applicant "your business?" "My business is to acquaint you that Jack Sheppard has escaped, Mr. Beyond that everything was nebulous. “Mrs.
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