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. He munched his popcorn steadily, periodically offering it to her, but not his Coke, as that would be too bold, a saliva exchange. I’ll give you grandpére!’ ‘But milor’—’ ‘Pardon!’ No longer master of his actions, the general lurched forward, waving his cane.
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