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” Drummond looked up with mock eagerness. "How do I know you are a friend?" asked Darrell. Gianfrancesco was not ugly, in fact, perhaps he was rather handsome after all. 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. “Steady on!” he cried. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. This person—this Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely an hour ago, in Wych Street, is—I know not why—my enemy. I think too much about myself. 8 or 1.
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