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 Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face.
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