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. The ladder was now within reach. It seemed to them they could never have been really alive before, but only dimly anticipating existence. ‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged. Suddenly he burst into wild laughter; but equally as suddenly something strangled the sound in his throat. " "Didn't the natives have a name for you?" She blushed.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjE5MS44OC43MyAtIDAzLTA2LTIwMjQgMDM6NTM6MzIgLSAxODAzMjAxMTIz
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