‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. 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. “Come in. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. Oh! you haven't got the key—then I must have it, I suppose. Come, make yourself scarce.
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