Though a few months younger than his companion Jack Sheppard, he was half a head taller, and much more robustly formed. 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. Before she put on her sun-helmet, she paused before the mirror. I believe you’ve crushed a gland or something. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL.
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