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. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. “We will see that he never annoys you. ‘There’s a surgeon on his way, and my men are under orders to do whatever is needful.
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