Spurlock: 'tis Roundhead, sure enough. Gave me a purse, and told me to take both of ’em up to Harwich and put them on a packet for Holland. But it was almost choked up with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered tiles. But McClintock's mind was perceptive, whereas Spurlock's was only dully confused. 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. Hell, my mom hates everyone, don’t take this personally, but she doesn’t like you very much and she isn’t shy about letting me know.
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