Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. This child was frequently disconcerting. It was you, of course, whom he wanted. 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. Mr.
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