‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. On this I am resolved. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. 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. “They have no plans for us.
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