” “That’s rather a fine sort of holiday!” He made no answer for three or four seconds. Answering him was agonizing. Ten thousand steeds appeared to be trampling aloft, charged with the work of devastation. 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 will teach you how to make that little sufficient. .
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