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 believe I’m in love. “But Sebastian! I need them!” He smiled, not a smile of comfort, but a smile of terrible menace. ‘Ha! It’s you, is it?’ He threw a glance at his two juniors. God help me.
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