He wanted her named Mary. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Senior year started with a whimper. He suspected a trap. 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.
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