"Oh, lud! what's that?" exclaimed a female voice, from an adjoining room. It would have been very well if she had been some common creature who might have been bought off. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. The door was locked; but, with the bars of iron, it was speedily burst open. 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. It was the bitterest moment of her life. , and get some other man to live on as soon as possible.
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