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Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout. 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. “Can you come out tonight?” “Um, sure, I guess. " "Will you be taking a pole-chair?" "If that's the racket. There are certain smells, certain tinges to the air. The occasion is worth a dash of the grape, lad.

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