“My hand! This isn’t the place. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. Jack instantly started to his feet, and the man, alarmed at his appearance, ran off to a neighbouring house. 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. ’ ‘This is what you say of him? Me, I find he is growling all the time like a dog.
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